


We Are the Shadows in the Mirror

by bboiseux, fiach_dubh, ginnyvos, TheLastNoel



Series: Critical Role Campaign 2 [24]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Critical Robin, Darkest Timeline, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Magical Fuckery, Mind Control, just so much depression, light references to gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-01 07:46:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15769686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bboiseux/pseuds/bboiseux, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiach_dubh/pseuds/fiach_dubh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginnyvos/pseuds/ginnyvos, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastNoel/pseuds/TheLastNoel
Summary: The fight against Trent was going well.  And then it wasn’t.  And then it hadn’t happened at all.  When Beau finds herself back home about to marry Caleb, she knows something has gone wrong.  Very wrong.  She is trapped in the body of a dutiful daughter, one that has never known a day of combat, and her friends are trapped in their own nightmare versions of their lives.  Traveling across the Dwendalian Empire, Beau must face down a Caleb still loyal to Trent, a Fjord who became a ruthless bandit, and a Jester who was found by something much more sinister than the Traveler.  Can she free them in time to save the life of one of their own and escape this world?  Or are they doomed to die as shadows in the mirror?  A story of battles, self-doubt, and the strength of friendship.[Written Pre-Episode 25]Reading Time:abt 2 hoursStatus:Complete





	1. The Bride Wore White

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of the Critical Role Round Robin Fic Challenge, where, between July 8th and August 18th 2018, writers started a new fic and then passed it around their group, each writer adding their contribution until the fic went full circle and returned to its original writer. That writer then had to revise and edit the fic into readable shape. This is one result!
> 
> Co-authors added on appropriate chapters.

They had cornered Trent in the caverns, a long dark torturous path that had left them cold and bloody, but worn him down too.  Astrid and Eodwulf had fallen.  He was down to the last of his soldiers.  But he had also staked his claim to the high ground and Beau could feel them losing the advantage.  It was a war of attrition that he could win.  The cave was filled with the tangy electricity of arcane mutterings and a pale light was building in Trent’s hands.  His lips moved to strange incantations.  Beau didn’t know what he was doing.  She didn’t know what Caleb was doing (tucked away in a corner, mirroring Trent’s trance).  But whatever was about to happen could not be good.  Trent was moving now and none of them were close enough to do anything.  Trent’s toy soldiers were keeping them locked down.  Nott’s crossbow was in pieces on the ground.  Fjord was pinned between a wall and two heavy swords.  Yasha was swarmed by some magical creature summoned from a fiery plane.  Jester was running to Molly, hands glowing, ready to bring him back to consciousness.  And the light was beginning to melt and float into searing tendrils.

Beau felt the face of the soldier pinning her down go soft under her fist and she let his body fall.

Trent had stopped muttering and the tendrils of light slithered through the air and out across the cavern.  Trent’s yellowed face was cracked with a twisted grin.  The tendrils recoiled for a moment, coiling and charging, and then struck.  One for each of them.

And then Yasha’s shadow was in front of Beau, the Magician’s Judge held like a shield in front of them—

—It was her family’s vineyard.  The sky was a beautiful blue.  It was the right season for the vines to bloom and the air was filled with their scent of sun kissed melon.  Beau breathed deeply.  It had always been a smell she loved.  If you breathed deep enough and close enough to the flowers you could taste it on your tongue.  The crowd was gathered under the small grove of mahogany trees that her mother had insisted on keeping when her father had cleared the land.  Her skin was warm from the dapples of sun, but the breeze bore the last cool drops of winter.  Somewhere in the trees, the birds sang delicate melodies and the wind shook out rustling accompaniments from the leaves.

Beau’s hands were held lightly in a pair of strong, masculine hands that had clearly seen many a day’s work, but were also kept clean and well ordered.  Her own hands were manicured to a perfect squared end and painted a pale pink.  Beau looked up and it was Caleb.  He was clean-shaven, hair expertly trimmed and coifed.  A small smile turned up the corners of his lips and his cold blue eyes painted her face adoringly.  He stood high and official and his body was adorned in the red military uniform of the Dwendalian Empire, gold epaulettes at his shoulders, several medals pinned across his chest.  A ceremonial sword hung at his side.

To her side, a priest was saying, “. . . may his light shine eternally over this union and bring much abundance and plenty to the family that results.”

Beau’s head jerked to the other side.  Rows of people, seated in wooden chairs, stretching into the fields.  Her parents.  The entire village.  She recognised individual workers she had known as a child.  Grayer now, but still there.  They were all beaming at her.

With growing horror, she looked down.  She was covered in yards of white satin that billowed out below her.  Hundreds of intricately embroidered flowers swarmed across her waist and chest, towards her throat.

She dropped Caleb’s hands and they hung in the air.  “What the fuck?”

The priest’s words stopped in a rough choke.

Beau’s arms felt loose and jiggly.  Her body felt soft, delicate, weak, like this clean white wrapper of a dress, pressed and tight, held her together. She backed away, smacking the dress.

Caleb stepped forward, his hands outstretched, his face peering at her with tender concern.  “What’s the matter?”  He tried to grab her arm and she leapt backward.

“I—No.”  She kept backing away as Caleb approached.  A glance to the side showed her parents rushing over, the rest of the crowd standing, peering around each other to get a better view.  “Stay back and tell me what’s going on.”  She readied her arms in an aggressive stance.  They felt sluggish.  “I swear the first person who touches me I knock on their ass.”

Caleb put his hands up, palms forward.  “It’s okay, Neha.  No one here is your enemy.”

“Neha?  What the fuck are you talking about?”

Beau’s parents came running up.  Her father, round with a thick white beard, looked at her and then to Caleb.  “What’s going on?”  The voice demanded.  Just the way Beau remembered.

Her mother, tall and lanky, stayed partially hidden behind her husband.  Just the way Beau remembered as well.  Her mother’s hand was clutching at her father’s shoulder.  “Neha?  What’s the matter?”

Caleb’s eyes didn’t leave Beau and his face had taken on a more analytical, removed look.  He held up a steady hand to her parents.  “Something has happened, but I will make this okay.  Let’s go inside.”  He reached out towards Beau.

She smacked his hand away and backed up.  “Caleb, why are you wearing that uniform?  Why are we doing this?”

Her mother’s eyes flipped back and forth between the two of them.  “Why is she calling you Caleb?  What is this?  Neha!  Please.”

Beau felt that familiar rage building.  The tone of her mother’s voice was enough.  “Because his name is Caleb,” she snapped, “Now stay the fuck out of this.”

“Young lady, you will stop that language immediately.”  Her father was already shouting, deep and resonant.  “You have already embarrassed us enough in front of—"

Having taken her eyes off of Caleb, Beau didn’t see his mouth moving, his hands dipping into the punch on his belt.

Until there was nothing.

***

Beau came to in her old room, the afternoon sun pouring in through the windows.  It was still the pale pink her mother had insisted on, but there was more . . . frilliness everywhere—the bed, the curtains, even a doily on the vanity.  All the edges she had tried to add, all the holes they had had to patch, were gone, had never been there.   Instead, framed samplers of complex needlework covered the wall, pastoral scenes, family trees.  One even represented a sweeping view of her family’s house.

Who the fuck was she?

A quick glance in the mirror showed her that she was still her, but . . . different.  Her hair was long, to her shoulders, and curled (no undercut), with a veil still draped over a face flush and curved, lacking the hard angles she had earned by burning away all fat.  Her arms were round, without any definition.  And the dress.  The dress.  It was like being eight again and going to her first community dance, only worse.  Then the dress had been a simple affair.  She had hated it, but it was simple.  This?  This was a prison of layers—the bodice, the skirt, the petticoats, the corset.  She could barely move.

She took a long look in the mirror and tore at the dress, ripping one of the shoulder seams with a sharp tug.  She tried pulling it down, but it was too tight through the waist.  Flailing about the room, she clawed at the fasteners on the back, unhooking them one at a time.  She could hear voices in the hallway.  She needed to be ready.  She needed to be able to move.  When she slipped out of the bodice, she pulled off the camisole quickly and scrambled at the ties on the corset, pulling until she could get it over her head.  Now it was just the skirt.

The first layer came off quickly, as she moved towards the door.  The crinoline was more work, but a tug on the tie made it drop to the floor and she stumbled out of it.  That left her in the under petticoat, bloomers, and chemise.  Almost to the door, she slipped the under petticoat off and leaned down to the keyhole.  The chemise and bloomers would give her plenty of flexibility.

Through the keyhole, Beau could just make out Caleb and a blonde woman, her hair pulled back in a severe bun.  Astrid.  Her hand was resting lightly on Caleb’s arm, teasing him closer.

“Let me take care of this.  Woman to woman.”  Her voice was a delicate melody, but underneath was a current of steel that made Beau’s spine stiffen.

“No.  She is my wife—”

“Not yet.” Astrid seemed to take great joy in the comment, a smug smile curling across her face.

Caleb only glared at her and then continued as if she had said nothing.  “I cannot shirk responsibility when she needs it most.  I will take care of this.  Whatever that means.  Whatever is required.”

Astrid nodded knowingly and released Caleb as he turned towards the door.   Beau backed away quickly, glancing around the room for the best defensive position.  The knob of the door shook for a moment, then she heard Caleb again. “Your daughter will be alright.  I promise you that.”  And the door swung open.

Beau was near the window, fists up.  Caleb was upright, and stiff, one hand resting casually on the sword at his side.  He took in the clothing covering the floor and then regarded Beau calmly.

“Neha.”  There was a tenderness in the way he said the name, but the same sharpened steel Beau had heard in Astrid’s voice lay beneath.  “I do not understand what is happening, but I want to help you.  Will you let me help you?”

“I am not fucking Neha.”  She spat the words out.  “Caleb, I don’t know what—“

Caleb’s face had gone flat and he started muttering under his breath, reaching for a pouch at his side.

“Oh fuck no.”  Beau rushed him, ready to knock the magic out of his mouth.  She leaped, elbow aimed in a powerful shot at his jaw.

But the leap was too short.  Her body didn’t respond.  Her legs wobbled.  Her arm didn’t snap, but merely moved.

And Caleb was already out of the way, his arms grabbing her before there was any chance of a reaction, pushing her to the ground, pinning her down, arms in an iron grip.  She could feel his knee digging into her back, pushing against her kidney.  Her vision went hot red and white.  The pain seared inside.  It was agonizing.

Caleb finished the spell.

Ice surged through Beau’s veins.  It was cool.  It was relaxing, like a heat had been burning her body up, slowly destroying her, and now Caleb had put the fire out, saving her.  Every muscle in her body stopped fighting.  What was there to fight against?

As he felt the tension evaporate, Caleb released Beau and stood up.

“Get up and sit on the bed.”

It was a command and it was only natural to follow a command.  Beau picked herself up and lounged back on the bed.  She looked up at Caleb.  “Yo, what’s up?”

Caleb’s face stayed hard, his eyes cold.  “Who are you?”

Beau shrugged.  She didn’t know why she had been fighting anymore.  It was Caleb.  Strange, frightening Caleb, but still Caleb.  “Beauregard.”

“How did you get this body?”

Beau laughed.  “Dude, I’ve always had this body.”  She flexed an arm and looked at the total lack of definition.  “I mean, it’s a little soft right now, but still mine.”

Not a single thought or emotion flickered across Caleb’s face.  “How did you meet Neha?”

“Seriously?  I keep telling you: I don’t know who the fuck Neha is.”

The right corner of Caleb’s mouth twitched, his hand rested on the sword at his side.  “You have taken a woman’s body from her.  Where do you come from?”

“Like, in a hometown sense?  Here.  This is my parent’s house.  Looks about the same except my room was nowhere near this girly.”  Beau looked casually about the room.

The answer seemed to disturb Caleb.  “Where were you directly before this?”

“We were fighting Trent.  I remember that.  He cast some sort of spell and then I was there.  Out there.  At that fucking joke of a wedding.”

“Trent?  Trent Ikithon?”

“Yeah, your old trauma buddy.  We were going to kill him.  Or we were, but you were going to do something else.  You said you were going to make everything okay again.  If I’m being honest it was a little frightening.”

“Trent Ikithon is a hero of the Empire.  A great man.  He was more of a father to me than my own father.”

“Right.  Okay.  So that’s where you are.”  Beau laughed.  “Man, I don’t know what you did to me, but it’s, like, so much fucking easier to think right now.  Like, I’m not as distracted by how pissed I usually am.”  She shook her head, grinning.  “I like you, man.  It makes me really sad to see how fucking gullible you are.  Don’t get me wrong, you’re frightening as shit, but boy are you a complete tool.”  Beau took a long look at Caleb, searching his face.   “Is that it?  Did you just not break then?  Did you never realize what he’d done?  Is that what this is?  I mean, I have no fucking clue how I ended up like—“

“Neha.”  There was a slight softness to the voice that hadn’t been there before, but it was still a command.  “I need you to be quiet.”

Beau nodded, keeping her lips sealed.

“I’m going to cast a spell to remove any magical effects on you.  I think—I think your mind has been altered and I can make it better.”  Caleb squatted down in front of her and brushed her face, as if clearing away cobwebs.  It was a gentle touch, as if he had done this hundreds of times, holding Beau close.  Normally, she would have recoiled from a touch that was so obviously romantic, but now it seemed right.  Caleb was taking care of her.

A slight tickle pulsed through her head and she felt the urge to scratch at her scalp.  But then the feeling was gone.

Caleb cradled her head in his palm and searched her face.  “Neha?  Is that you?”

Beau through her hands open in defeat.  “Shit, man.  I’m sorry.  I really want to be Neha for you.  But I’m not.”

Caleb pushed up and away, throwing himself to the other side of the room.  He gazed out the window at the warm afternoon light.  Then he turned with a forced smile on his face.  “I think Astrid should talk to you.  Don’t you think that is a very good idea?”  He started walking towards the door.

“Yo, I only want to help you, so I want to say yes, but that’s probably a really shitty idea.”

Caleb stopped in mid-stride and turned on his heal towards Beau.  “I am only curious.  Why is that?”

“Presumably, Trent fucked with her head too.  Made her think that her parents were anti-imperialists, so she’d kill them.  Who knows what else he did to all of you.”

Caleb’s lips pulled down in a grimace, cracks in the marble of his face.  “You make dangerous accusations.  It doesn’t matter whose body you wear.  I won’t be able to save you if you keep talking like this.”

Beau shrugged.  “Hey, I trust whatever you think is right.  You just need to know that Trent changed your memories.  Your parents never had that conversation.  You burned them for nothing.”

It wasn’t an explosion.  It wasn’t wild.  It was a controlled burst.  Beau barely saw him move, but Caleb was suddenly inches from her face.  She could see his left eye twitch, just a little, at the edge.  “Trent has always done what was right for the Empire.  If my parents had to die for that, then so be it.”

Beau nodded happily.  “That sounds totally on point.  Your parents had to die in a fire for the good of the Empire.”

Caleb straightened up and swept a disdainful glance across the reclining Beau.  Then he doubled over.

Caleb’s knees buckled and he collapsed, clawing at his jacket.  He dry heaved.  Then dry heaved again. Then vomited all pink and brown.  On the bed, Beau shuddered out of the spell and looked down at Caleb on all fours on the floor.  The coolness drained out of her body and she felt the simmering anger pulsing up through her limps.  If Caleb was coming out of whatever this was she should help him.  If he wasn’t, she needed to take him out now.  A swift kick to the head should be enough.

She made the decision swiftly, without question.  She stood, but, as prepared the kick, the door shook with a heavy hammering.  Astrid’s voice called out. “Is everything okay?”  The door slammed open, knocking against the wall.

Astrid stood, framed in the door.  Her hands were already crackling with energy, her eyes searing into Beau, the energy building.  The spell was about to release and Beau moved (too late, she knew) to dive out of the way.

The entire doorway exploded with flames, Astrid slamming back like a ragdoll, her face twisting in agony before her skin blistered away.  The heat of the flames washed over the room.  Beau felt the intense heat baking away at her skin.  In the doorway was the flaming heap that had been Astrid.

From the floor, where she had fallen, Beau looked over at Caleb.  He was pressed, back against the bed, the flames just flickering away from his hands.  His eyes watched the flames at the door, glazed and distant.  She reached out and grazed his shoulder with her finger tips.  She could hear the man who looked like her father yelling for the Crown’s Guard.

“Caleb?”

He stayed motionless, staring at his hands.

“God fucking damn it.”  Beau crawled over to Caleb and gripped his shoulder.  “Shit man, I need you to snap out of this.”  She shook him gently.  “I can’t carry you.  I need you to walk.”

Caleb turned his head towards her, his eyes dull.

“Fuck.  I’m—”  She started to raise her hand to slap him and then dropped it, reaching out and lightly clasping one of his hands.  “Can you stand?”  She stood, his hand dangling in hers.  Like a sleepwalker, he followed her, his eyes still locked on Astrid’s body.

“I—I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I can’t—”

“Yeah. Listen, I know this sucks.  And I’m happy to give you all the time in the world to collapse.  But first we have to get somewhere safe.”  Beau pulled Caleb towards the window.  “If this horror show of a world is anything like where I grew up, I’ve got some safe spots around here.”

The second place she looked was still there, the old abandoned cottage she’d used for drinking and girlfriends.  It wasn’t much worse than the last time she’d used it, right before the monks.  The roof was falling in and the whole structure smelled of damp, rotting wood, but it would do.  The dark was closing in now.  The last rays of the fading sun gave way to the long shadows of twilight.

Beau had set Caleb up in one corner, folding up the red jacket to form a pillow, and left him to his silence.  She wanted to talk.  She wanted to work, to figure it out.  But she first she figured she could give him the time.  This must have been his worst nightmare.  So, she borrowed a knife from his side, and, using a broken piece of glass as a mirror, did what she could with her hair, cropping it short.  When Caleb still seemed to be trapped in a general malaise hours later, Beau settled in the darkness and tried pushups, switching to the wall when straight pushups proved too hard.  She needed to burn the strength back into her body.  The form.  The movement.  Her arms were weak even from these few sets.

She cursed angrily at the dirt floor.  She just wanted to punch something, but even that would be unsatisfying with this weak ass body.

“Beauregard?”  A magical globe of light flared in the dark. “Is that you?”

Beau pushed herself up to her feet and walked over, squatting by him.  “Yeah.”

“Is this—is this real?”

Beau shook her head.  “I don’t know.  Trent did something to us.  You were completely . . . that . . . other Caleb . . . that—“

“Monster.”  Caleb spit out the whisper.  “I was that monster.  Just like before.”

Beau let herself ignore the vitriol in Caleb’s voice.  “You were someone else.  And—” Beau held up her arms, looked down at her body.  “—I must have been someone else until that moment.  Trent changed us.”

“That’s his specialty.”  Beau had rarely heard Caleb direct that kind of venom at anyone but himself.

“Okay,” said Beau, “but why did I snap out of it?  Why did I become me?  Right?  Something must have snapped me out of it.  Like I snapped you out of it. What made me snap out of it?” Beau regarded Caleb in the glow of the orb.  “What made you snap out of it?  What happened back in that room when—when you lost it?”

“It is—it is hard to describe.  It was like your words were speaking to me—” He pointed at his chest.  “—even though I was not there.  I could hear, even though that body was not me.  I woke up out of dark waters.  And then I was vomiting and on the floor.  But it was me.”

“Huh.”  Beau tugged at the thin chemise.  “That didn’t happen to me.  Like, there was no waking up.  I was just battling Trent and then I was at that fucking wedding.”

“Perhaps something was different for you.  Or maybe we just wake up differently.”

“Yeah.  Yeah.” She picked at her clothing again.  “And everyone else is out there somewhere in this messed up world.”

The thought of their friends, changed and alone in this world, made both of them fade into silence.  Beau slid down next to Caleb and leaned against the wall, headed bowed.  She hugged her knees close.

Finally, after a few minutes, Caleb spoke again.  “I thought there would be a chance that—I thought Astrid might break away.  I thought if I could say something--“ He swallowed.  “But instead I burned her.”

Beau took a deep calming breath and let it out before she allowed herself to speak.  “I wish I could give you time.  I wish I could just let you mourn or wallow or whatever the hell this is.  I really do.  But, as much as I hate to admit this, I can’t do this by myself.  I don’t know what Trent did or what happened to the others.  Can you, like, detect what kind of magic this is?”

Caleb nodded vaguely and reached into his jacket.  “ _Ja.  Ja._   That is something I can do.”  He pulled out a book, but only flipped it over, examining it in the dim light.  “This is not mine.”  Then he shook his head, laying the book at his side. 

His hands moved with a life of their own, ducking into his component bag, his lips muttering incantations.  The components vanished from his fingertips.

Nothing seemed to happen.  Caleb craned his neck back, looking around the room.

“Can you tell anything?” asked Beau, “Is it mind control?  Is it an illusion?”

Caleb sank into himself.  When he looked at Beau, his stare was as empty as she had ever seen it.  “I do not know.  Whatever he did, it is done.  He might have changed the entire reality of the world.  This might be reality now.”  Suddenly, Caleb pounded the floor.  Once.  Twice.  Again and again and again.  “He took this from me.  He took even this from me.”

Beau raised a hand and held it over Caleb’s shoulder, then patted him in a halting, mechanical fashion.  “Uh, it’s—okay?  Like, it’ll be okay.”

“Beauregard, I—I don’t know what to do or how to even figure out what to do”

Beau’s face was twisted into a snarl of determination, every breath a tight knot in her chest. “Then we find the others.  We find the others and we fucking fix this.”

“ _Ja._ ”  Caleb nodded and curled up into a ball.  “ _Ja.”_

Beau looked over at Caleb.  His body was strong, so much stronger than it had been.  But his mind was broken.  She held out her arms, peering at them in the dim magical light.  Her body was weak, but her mind intact.  There had to be a way out of this.  There had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by bboiseux ([@bboiseux](http://bboiseux.tumblr.com)).


	2. The Girl in the Basement

The road had been hard. They had nothing. No map, no horse, no food. Just tattered wedding finery and their own feet. They simply started walking. Because they had nothing to decide, no direction they could choose. They had to find their friends. But their friends could be anywhere.

Beau had made the plan. “We start where they started. Where they were. The Menagerie Coast, Xhorhasia, wherever it was Molly said he crawled out of the grave--”

Caleb kept his gaze ahead on the blank emptiness of the road. “Mollymauk,” he said. “He will not be Mollymauk. He will be this—this Lucien or Nonagon or someone else.”

“We don’t know that,” Beau said, but she knew Caleb was probably right.

After two days, Beau’s feet were killing her. Caleb walked beside her, his body hard and ready for action, his boots thick and strong. Beau’s body wasn’t used to walking long distances. It wasn’t used to anything. She could only imagine that this Neha had spent her days sitting perfectly still in a chair, only her hands moving as they carefully built little birds and the alphabet out of string. Waiting for a husband. Now she was tired—too quickly—out of breath. Her arches felt like they were collapsing. And they were still in the middle of nowhere.

Nowhere became a different shittier nowhere, where the population stared at them with scared, wary eyes, rushing past, barely acknowledging them. Beau traded away a fancy bauble that hung around her waist and smelled like it was filled with rank perfume or incense. Caleb called it a pomander. Beau called it crap and couldn’t believe the amount of money someone was willing to pay for it. It paid for new clothes—scratchy and course, but more fit for traveling and anonymity—and a used pair of boots. Caleb kept his own boots. They had served him well so far. And it bought them a ride on a cart to the nearest place with an actual name. A name she didn’t recognize, but a name nonetheless. Things couldn’t have changed so much that even the towns were different. She didn’t know everywhere. She let that worry pass out of her head.

It was a long bumpy ride crammed between piles of root vegetables and tickled by swarms of flies. Beau practiced punching the sacks of vegetables, trying to make her body remember what her mind already knew. Caleb sat heavily beside her, muttering the names of their friends under his breath again and again. Each time, when he got to Nott, he choked on her name.

“She’ll be alright,” Beau said. She didn’t know if she was telling the truth.

It took three days in the cart, and by then they were both sore and angry and the fear and horror had really set in. But Beau wasn’t going to give in to the helplessness. She wouldn’t. Each morning she did her old exercises. Pushups. Chin-ups. Sit-ups. Squats. Warrior. Tree. Scorpion. Dragon. She could do most of them. Her body ached. Her arms burned. Her legs wormed and shook beneath her. But she did them. Caleb started and ended the day, pouring over the spell book he had found on his body. He wasn’t going to let his mind go either. He occasionally seemed deeply concerned with a certain spell here and an incantation there. And then they were in town, stepping off the cart, and looking square at their first lead.

There were wanted posters everywhere. So many faces, plastered on walls, the simple word “traitor” beneath each and every one in bold capitals. For a moment, Beau was certain she’d see her own, Caleb’s. Instead, it was a different familiar face.

She dragged Caleb to the wall and jammed a finger at one of the posters. It was bigger than the others and so was the reward money. Right above “traitor,” in even bigger letters was the name “The Hawker.” And right above that, as clear as day, was an image of Fjord.

“What’s the fucking chance?” She scanned the poster, reading the long list of crimes (murder, extortion, kidnapping, theft, treason, and a thousand variations on those crimes), and there, at the bottom, was his last known location. “This is it. This is where we start.” She wanted to punch the air. Things seemed to be working out.

“We may have something else,” Caleb said, voice numb. “A little closer to home, as you might say.”

Beau followed the line of Caleb’s eyes. She’d missed it because there was no picture. It was a broadsheet of sorts, not old, but possibly very out of date. It talked about the arrest of a man known as Nonagon and a group of cultist, who had been caught practicing illegal magic. It detailed the speedy trial, the guilty verdict, and the sentence: death by hanging.

“They’re going to kill him,” Caleb said, “They may have already done it.”

Beau heard the flat tone and recognized the precipice Caleb was standing on. He had already been pushed too far. She was afraid he couldn’t take any more.

She studied the broadsheet in desperation. There had to be useful information, another name, a—a place. There was a name of a place. She whipped around and grabbed a passing stranger. “How far is Nierhiem?”

The man tugged away from her grasp, but you didn’t need that much muscle to hold onto someone this scrawny. Finally, he squeaked, “Four days! That way!” and Beau let him go.

Beau centered herself. Four days, and they might be too late. Hell, they might already be too late. Molly was a pain in the ass, but he was her pain in the ass. She looked back at Caleb. And so was he.

She had to try.

She pulled Caleb away from the posters and forced him to meet her gaze. “Molly first,” Beau said. “Then Fjord.”

If the paper wasn’t too old, if the travel wasn’t too long, maybe they freed Molly—in more ways than one. And if they didn’t? She didn’t know what would happen to the rest of them. Did they all need to live to break the spell?

Most of Beau’s gold got them a hearty dinner and the fastest coach in town—an imperial coach stuffed full of imperial servants heading back towards the capital. They were not happy to share the couch with two rough and tumble bums, but Beau wasn’t happy to share it with imperial servants. So all things were equal.

It was going well. The first day passed uneventfully and they passed the night in a well-appointed roadside inn. They left early the next morning and were making good time—the driver asked if the passengers would prefer to press on and possibly cut a day of the trip. It was the first time Caleb had looked even remotely hopeful and that was bolstered when everyone agreed and they settled in for a long night in the luxurious but cramped coach.

And that was the mistake, a mistake that any of them should have seen. A rich imperial coach, packed with rich imperial folk, passing through a mountain range, in the dead of night, with no protection. It was obvious, wasn’t it. Beau would have thought of it herself. She should have thought of it this time.

The attack came from the front and the side—a lone horse in the road and then a roar at the door. The others were useless and Beau’s punches were next to useless. Caleb did his best with his magic, but he was one man. The rest of them, Beau included, were ordinary people. Hands grabbed her from behind. She fought anyway. And then, when she couldn’t move anymore, when the grip was too tight, she screamed and swore. Because fuck them, fuck them, and she made sure that they knew it. She told them in no uncertain terms.

Then a bright burst of pain at the back of her head.

Then darkness.

***

Then a splash of water to the face.

Beau spluttered and shot upright, or tried to, anyway. Her arms and legs were bound and her leap upward turned into a violent smack against the floor. She grit her teeth and cursed at her body. It had betrayed her once again. She cast a glare towards the source of the water. It was dark, the camp lit by only the embers of a fire, but she could make out a few figures huddled around the lingering heat and a lone figure outlined by the last of the light. That was the one in front of her. She couldn’t see his features, but the form was familiar enough that a spark of hope flickered in her chest.

“F- Fjord?” she asked, eyes wide in the hope that she'd catch something, anything from the large man before her.

“Who is Fjord?”

Beau deflated. The voice was foreign. For a moment she thought she heard something of Fjord, but that was gone in an instance. Even those few words revealed a lighter tone and accent that was almost . . . posh? Less wore, less used to the dirt than Fjord. Yet, she knew that snap judgments could be dangerous. She was bound tightly in the middle of the mountains, after being knocked unconscious, held captive for reasons she’d rather not discover. Whatever this man sounded like, he was a threat.

“Where’s Caleb?”

“Do you mean the wizard? He’s unconscious.” He gestured quickly to the side and Beau could just make out a crumpled pile at the edge of her vision. “Perhaps you should stop worrying about other people.”

He stepped closer and knelt down next to her bound body, dropped his face close. Beau’s eyes went wide. It was Fjord. There was no question. He sounded wrong, but it could only be Fjord. He even had the same scars across his face—a knick at the lip and a star across his forehead. He held up her bag—a small burlap sack she’d bought with the clothes—almost shoving it her face. Then he dropped it the short distance to the ground. The contents jingled a little.

“You’ve got some very valuable items in that bag. My men over there think you stole them and that we should kill you and ‘hock the whole load,’ as they put it. But me? I think you’re a little too soft for the road.” His hand, covered by a thick leather glove, clamped on her jaw and turned her head from side to side. “I think you come from money. And that presents some lucrative possibilities.” He tightened his grip so that she had to look directly at him. “Do you have a rich father that’s missing you? A husband?”

Beau tried desperately to make her befuddled mind work. That hit must have been pretty damn hard. Caleb was out. Fjord was right here. But, like Caleb, he didn’t seem to remember anything. How was she supposed to help Fjord remember? How was she going to keep him from either killing her or handing her back to her parents? Caleb had been simple. A glance had shown where things had gone wrong in this twisted little universe Trent had created. But Fjord? What did she truly know about Fjord? Jester had been the only one who seemed to know even a little and she was, at best, miles away.

The smack broke across her thoughts. This Fjord had given her a full palm against the cheek and was now clutching her jaw even tighter. “Focus. Is there some rich parent that will pay us a nice tidy sum to get you back? It’s quite a simple question. Yes or no.” The tone always stayed light, calm. But Beau had begun to read the violence under the waters.

“Maybe—” came a voice—a familiar voice—from the darkness. “—maybe someone hit her over the head just a little teensy bit too hard.” Jester skipped over and knelt down next to Fjord, one hand resting casually on his back.

Beau would have cried if she was the crying type. “Jester!” It came out all vowels, her face crushed by Fjord’s hand. He dropped it away and Beau repeated it. “Jester!” She knew it was pointless. Everyone else had a different name here, so it was almost certain Jester did to. But she couldn’t help it.

Jester laughed. “See! It’s just a bunch of nonsense.” Jester’s hand wound its way up to Fjord’s head and started playing with his hair. “You’re so strong.” And then she whispered leaning in close, “Oskar.”

This Fjord gave this Jester a look with the exact same mix of exasperation and fondness that the real Fjord would have given the real Jester and Beau couldn’t help feeling just a little bit lighter. Whatever might be different, this was still them.

Fjord gave a small “hm” and stood up, knocking Jester’s hand away at the same time. “Well, Miss Cleric, go ahead and apply some healing.”

Jester whined. “Do I have to?” It was going to get harder for Beau to think of her as Not-Jester when she was acting and sounding so much like her real best friend. At least Fjord had the decency to sound completely different!

Fjord nodded. “If it will help us get some answers and some money, I can’t see the harm.”

Jester knelt back down and reached a hand out to Beau. She felt the reassuring warmth of the healing flow through her. She had to admit that her head did feel better. What was left of the fog lifted and her body stopped aching.

The clarity made something snap into place. The chance of them all coming together like this was small beyond belief. Something had driven them all together. Here, in this reality where nothing made sense, something had made sure that Fjord and Jester had targeted that coach on that road on that night. Beau wasn’t exactly a devote believer in any divine power, but this smelled of interference from beyond. It gave her hope.

Fjord had let her face drag in the dirt. Now she rolled on her back, arms crushed underneath her and looked up at Fjord. “Yeah. Yeah, I come from money.” She laughed. “I was running away from home to marry a lord. That’s why I’ve got that stuff with me and I’m dressed like this. That’s why he was with me. He’s—uh—a vassal of the lord. Hell, my father or my fiancée would pay good money. But my fiancée would pay more. You get me and the wizard to him and I can guarantee you a heavy purse of gold.”

“So you’re claiming that I can ransom you off to a rich lord?” Beau couldn’t see Fjord’s face, but the tone didn’t sound promising. “And what might this ‘rich lord’s’ name be?”

“Nonagon,” Beau said, “In Nierhiem.”

***

She didn’t think Fjord was convinced. In fact, she knew he wasn’t convinced, but it was enough to keep them alive. And, strangely, it was enough for him to trust her. He looked relieved. She’d been made comfortable—set up next to Caleb on a blanket, given food and water. He even shrugged apologetically when he refused to remove her bonds. She’d had to ask, of course, had to try, but she hadn’t really expected him to remove them in the first place. Fjord was different enough that she had no trouble reminding herself that he wasn’t _her_ Fjord. He was the Hawker. He was a stranger and owed her nothing. Going forward, she played the spoiled rich brat, but made sure she didn’t push too far.

The gang needed to stay out-of-sight during the day. The Hawker especially. So they moved at night and they moved as a group and Beau and Caleb were kept hidden in the back of wagon when them moved. Caleb was kept asleep with a little magical assistance. The Hawker had said something about wizards being more trouble than they were worth. The threat had been clear and Beau had decided that knocked out was better than dead. She let it go.

Beau’s only concern was that one of the Hawker’s men had been sent ahead to Nierhiem. The Hawker was planning, but he wasn’t invested. There was still time for him to decide she and Caleb weren’t worth the trouble. And that time would come quickly if he discovered Nonagon was in jail or, worse, dead. 

So Beau started working on Jester. She figured Jester had been so open about her past that she had to be able to figure out what would make her remember. And after Beau had been declared fair game, Jester had hung around continuously, a barrage of questions always going in true Jester fashion. That had been a problem. Some Beau could answer easily, either with the truth or with lies so well worn that they might as well have been the truth right now. Others were harder.

She decided that Nonagon was a friend of the family. That Beau’s father knew Nonagon’s father through business connections. That he was a few years older, but they had known each other since they were little. That the family had objected to their relationship because of Nonagon’s race and they had started a hidden affair (that had been the perfect lie for Jester—Beau wanted to gag).

In return, she found out that Jester was called Marian, after her mama, who was a courtesan named the Ruby of the Sea. That she had a nice, but isolated childhood where she learned to draw and paint and sing. And that she had joined the highwaymen because of the adventure, and the romance, and because their leader was just so _dreamy_ —just like in this one book she had read. 

Which told Beau absolutely nothing that would help her wake Jester up. She was just eternally Jester.

And then, one day out from Nierhiem, The Hawker left to “check on some things.” He left only two instructions. His men were to keep their hands off the prisoners and Marian was responsible for keeping them safe. Apparently, those words were enough because the rest of the gang kept their distance and Marian didn’t leave Beau’s side. Beau drifted off to sleep with Caleb on one side and Marian still sitting up, watching the gang wind down.

“Psst! Beau!”

The sound jerked Beau out of a deep sleep. She’d gotten used to passing out from exhaustion at the end of their days on the road, but this was something different. Apparently, being jumped, tied up, and smacked around had more physical consequences than she remembered. What she would give for the days of that being a turn on.

She stirred and, through blurry eyes, saw the blue form of Marian looming out of the darkness. “Jest—Marian? What—fuck. Is Fjord coming back?” She was fairly certain every noise she had just made was incoherent. Caleb was still passed out next to her.

Marian’s face was all smile and teeth. And far too close for comfort. Which, again, was just normal Jester. She whispered conspiratorially. “I’m not Marian. It’s Jester. Me!”

Beau groaned, fighting through the lump of cotton candy in her head. “I—what?”

Marian pointed at herself. “I’m Jester! I’m not different. I remember!”

Beau gave her the long stare as the words wormed her way through her mind. Then her face went wide and she jerked forward against her bounds. “Jester!?”

Jester enveloped her in a hug, her arms nearly breaking Beau’s body.

“Hey. Hey!” Beau squirmed and pushed away with her shoulders, but then she just relaxed into the embrace. Jester was warmth, filling her up. Beau felt a smile pushing its way across her face. “Is it—is it really you?”

Jester let her go, Beau falling back with only her tied hands to break her fall. Jester squeaked and quickly pulled Beau back to a sitting position, then sat cross-legged on the floor next to her, her bag at her side. “It is really me!”

“Well, shit, can you get us out of here?”

Jester grimaced and bit her lip. “Um, well, it would be better if you and Caleb stayed tied up.”

“What!?” It was an explosion.

Jester immediately pressed her hand to Beau’s mouth. “Shhh.” She peered over her shoulder at the rest of the gang, sitting around the fire. “We have to get Fjord back. And we can’t do that if he doesn’t trust me.” Her body slumped slightly into herself, her shoulders tensing towards her ears. “He’s a lot like Fjord, but different.” Her voice trailed off as if she was considering something very specific. But then she bounced back, a manic energy crackling in her voice. “But the sex is very _very_ good!”

“Jester!”

Jester gave her a wide-eyed nod, her voice deep and sultry. “He is definitely a consenting adult, if you know what I mean.”

“I—I can’t even imagine what that means in this fucked up situation.”

Jester patted Beau’s leg. “It’s is okay, Beau, when you are older you will have very good sex too.”

“Jester, what do you think—I’ve had—” Beau’s mouth opened and closed a few more times, giving an excellent impression of a guppy, and then she spat out. “We don’t need—I don’t need to hear this. We need to figure this, right here, out now.”

Jester nodded. “How did you break the spell? How did you become yourself?”

“I didn’t. It was Trent, the flash, and then I was fucking marrying Caleb.”

“What!?” Jester bounced in place. “Did you marry him? Did you kiss?”

Beau went completely white. “No! Why the fuck would I want to marry Caleb?”

Jester looked over at Caleb’s sleeping form. “I imagine he looks quite dashing all cleaned up and in a uniform. Almost dreamy.” She sighed.

“Jester.” If her hands were free, she would have gripped Jester’s shoulders and shook her. “He has a dick. He’s not my type in so many—Why are we talking about this? We need to focus.”

“You are absolutely correct.” Jester screwed herself up with a firm nod. “So you didn’t wake up, you just were there. Me too. One moment we were fighting Trent in the caverns, then the spell overtook me and I was in my room in my Mother’s house.”

“Shit. At least you got a happy start. I mean, I was at my parent’s too. Do you think that means anything?”

Jester shrugged. “I don’t know.” She looked down at the bag at her side, the corners of her mouth drooping. “What about Caleb?”

“He was fucking messed up,” said Beau, “Like, never-left-Trent messed up.”

“Oh.”

“He cast a spell on me that made me do whatever he wanted and I think, if he hadn’t woken up, he was going to torture me.”

“Oh.” Jester looked back at the sleeping figure on the floor and hugged herself tight.

“It’s alright though, he snapped out of it. He saved me from Astrid.”

Jester’s face screwed up in pain. “Oh, Caleb.”

Beau’s eyes wandered in the dark, searching over the past few days for some kind of clues. “What if . . .” Her voice fell away into the uncertainty. “What if Trent put us in the place we would hate most? Like, Caleb was a loyal soldier. I was the perfect daughter. Fjord’s some kind of cutthroat—“

“He’s not. Not totally not! He’s just a bandit. And a freedom fighter too!” There was a part of Jester’s tone that seemed like she was trying to convince herself.

“Well, I don’t know.” Beau sagged back on the floor. “What was different about your life? What changed? There must have be some pattern.”

Jester’s head had dropped while Beau talked and now her hand reached into her bag and pulled out a sketchbook. It was similar to the one Beau always saw Jester writing in, but it was newer, with large chunks of soiled paper jutting out the edges. Jester laid it on her lap, hands trying to smooth the cover down, and then opened it up. The front was filled with a pile of scrap paper of varying sizes. They were covered with rough scrawls of dead bodies, of all types and sizes, in crude but gruesome detail. The lines looked like they had been scratched out with a blunt instrument and were of a strange black-brown color.

“What is that?” asked Beau.

Jester sniffed, her head still hanging low, her eyes invisible. All the energy, all the bubble, all the . . . Jester seemed to have evaporated in a moment. “I can’t hear the Traveler. I keep thinking I’m hearing his whispers—like he’s just around the corner—but I can’t make anything out. And—and I don’t think he knows me here. I—I don’t think he found me in my room—when I was little.” She sniffled again. “Something else did.”

“Jester, what—what is this?”

“Something else came to me. I don’t know what. Sometimes at night I can hear this screeching, wheezing breathing in my ears. It laughs and tells me to hurt people.” Her eyes were still hidden in the darkness, but Jester raised her hands. Beau saw now that the tips of them were heavily calloused, like they had been rent apart again and again. A few of the fingernails were still missing and Beau could just make out where they had been ripped out. “I think I did.” Jester traced one of the lines with the tip of her finger. The lines were thick and messy.

“Oh god, Jester, I’m so sorry.” Beau tried to lean forward, to offer some kind of comfort, but all she could do was rest her head against Jester’s. Tears plopped down on the open pages in Jester’s lap.

“Beau, my mama didn’t love me here.” A tremor passed through Jester’s body as she swallowed a sob. “She put me in the basement. In a tiny walled in room. She didn’t even give me a bed or—or a chamber pot. I was—I was in filthy rags and crusted in shit and—“ Jester stopped talking then. There was nothing left to say but tears. So Beau cradled Jester’s head in her neck and waited until the shuddering of Jester’s body stopped and she pulled away. Jester wiped her nose on her sleeve and dried her eyes. “I got out.” She paused and hardened her face. “I got out. And I cleaned up and I found some clothes and—and I found Fjord. Just like before. And he’s been nice. Most of the time.” She picked at the tipes of one of her fingers. “I like to pretend things are like they were before.”

“But he doesn’t remember.”

Jester shook her head.

“We need to figure out how to make him remember.”

“But how?” Jester’s face showed that she had almost given up hope. 

“We need to figure out what matters to him. Right? If we figure that out, then we can find the point of weakness.” Beau tried to settle herself into a more comfortable position. She was hoping this was going to be a long conversation. “Tell me everything you know about Fjord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original draft by fiach_dubh ([@bisexualpiratequeen](http://bisexualpiratequeen.tumblr.com)) & ginnyvos ([@ginnyvos](http://ginnyvos.tumblr.com)). Revision and expansion by bboiseux ([@bboiseux](http://bboiseux.tumblr.com)).


	3. Dance with the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added a couple tags: canon-typical violence, abusive relationship, alcoholism/alcohol-abuse.

When Beau woke up the next morning, the Hawker was back. They were a day out from Nierheim and he was busy getting the camp packed up and his gang in order.  Beau immediately noticed that the man the Hawker had sent ahead was back too and sticking close.  She didn’t like that.  She looked around and saw that Jester had fallen asleep at her feet.  A few quick taps with her bound legs brought Jester to consciousness.  She sat up.  She gave Beau a quick visual check in and then turned to the Hawker.

Unfortunately, Beau’s little nudge had also been noticed by the Hawker.  He walked casually over to her and, with a jerk, pulled her to a sitting position.  “You should pay attention to this.”  He gave her a nod that reminded her so much of Fjord it ached.  Then he turned to Jester.  “Marian, gag the wizard and wake him up.  Put his component pouch in the cart with his books.  He’ll need to see this too.”

Jester immediately followed the Hawker’s orders.  Caleb’s pouch was snatched and thrown in the cart. A makeshift gag was fashioned out of a pink paisley handkerchief and pulled tight across Caleb’s mouth.  A few muttered words later and Caleb’s eyes were wide and he was struggling against the ropes that bound his arms and legs.  He stopped when he saw Jester, a questioning look in his eyes, and settled further when she put a finger over her lips.  She helped him upright and Beau nodded at him, mouthing “No time.”

Meanwhile, the Hawker had called his gang together, pulling them into a wide circle near the prisoners.  He seemed to be giving a speech.

“You all know me to be a merciful leader.  Would you agree with that assessment?”

There was a general murmur in the group that seemed to lean towards agreement.  Perhaps not so strongly as to give Beau a warm fuzzy feeling inside.  It gave her more of a tightness in her stomach.

“I’m very glad to hear that.”  Looking over his shoulder at Beau, Caleb, and Jester, he said, “Marian, please come over here.  I have need of your services.”

Beau thought she saw a look of pain flash across Jester’s face, but it was gone so quickly that she couldn’t be certain.  Instead, Jester stood up and bounced over to the Hawker’s side.  Then Beau was certain that the gang members didn’t look happy.  They were eying each other suspiciously.

“I can see that many of you understand that there is a problem.  Now, I want to reassure all of you gentlemen that it is not a matter of loyalty.”  A wave of relief seemed to wash over the small crowd.  “No, not loyalty.”  The Hawker walked to the cart and lifted a large sack out of the back, carrying it back to his original position.  “It is a question of honesty and care.  Emmett?”  His eyes locked on a small, greasy looking bandit at the front of the group.  “This sack is significantly lighter than when I left yesterday.  Do you perhaps have an explanation for that?”

Emmett seemed to be muttering words to himself, practicing some small prepared speech one more time.  His hands worked at one another, desperate for an escape, and then, the transition from wordless mumbling to full on speech missed in a blink, words spilled out.  “Ah, boss, you know I’ve got a problem.  You know that.  I’m working at it.  I really am.  I work really hard at it.  And it’s been weeks since I fell back in.  And last night.  I just—”

The Hawker’s voice cut across the meandering whimpering.  “I can’t help but notice that your relapse happened the moment I turned my back on you.”  He didn’t move any closer, but Emmett was folding in on himself, cowering.  The Hawker’s voice went sharp.  He sounded more like Fjord than any other time since Beau had been captured.  “You.  Don’t.  Waste. The. Product.”  He dropped the bag.  “Is that understood?”

Emmett was shaking and his head began nodding vigorously.  “Yes, yes, yes.  Sir, I promise you.  Yes.”

“Unfortunately, you weren’t the only one to make a mistake last night.  But you were the only one on your third chance.  So . . .”  The Hawker turned to Jester.  He brushed her cheek softly.  “. . . I need my little demon.”

Emmett was in tears, sobbing wet sticky “Noes” into the air.

“You can have your dinner now,” said the Hawker to Jester, “and then your dessert later.”

The punch was telegraphed long before the Hawker threw it, but only the merest flinch showed on Jester’s face.  Her head snapped to the side, taking the full force of the fist in her jaw and lips.  She crumpled to the ground.  Beau tensed, wanting to tear at the Hawker, rip him apart.  But the ropes and her own body were too much.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Caleb flinch forward after the same instinct.

Jester picked herself up.  Beau could just see blood dribbling down her chin.  With that hit she had probably broken a lip on a tooth.  Jester raised a hand to her mouth and wiped the blood away, staring at the smear on her own fist.

Then she licked it off, a long lingering lick, her tongue caressing her hand with preternatural dexterity.  Her whole eyes had gone inky black.

She wheezed and looked up at the Hawker.  “Food.  Now.”  The words tumbled out like snakes slithering out of her throat.

The Hawker smiled a single cruel smile and pointed at Emmett, a restraining hand on Jester’s shoulder.  “Emmett.  I’m going to give you a thirty second head start.”  He looked around at the sparse mountain landscape, the small scrubs of trees.  “You don’t have much of a chance in a straight chase, so try and use what little brains you have left.”

Emmett was still standing, the rest of the gang forming an ever broader circle around him.

The Hawker leaned forward.  “Go!”

Emmett bolted.

Thirty seconds later, Jester, snarling and slathering, sprinted after him.  Beau could barely recognize her friend.

After the two had disappeared into the thick brush and the thin clusters of trees, the Hawker walked coolly over to Beau and Caleb.  He knelt down to their level and simply stared.  Stared until the silence grew uncomfortable and then he stared some more.

Beau couldn’t handle that much silence.  “What the fuc—”

A scream broke the air, a horrible wailing screech, like an injured coyote or a dying peacock.  Both Beau and Caleb jerked their heads in the direction of the sound, hoping the sight of some animal on the mountains would make sense of the sounds.  But the Hawker’s gaze stayed fixed, watching their faces.

The scream cut off, as suddenly as it began, and the normal sounds of the mountains began to fill the air again.

“I just thought you should be aware of what you’re cozying up to.”  He rose and walked back to his gang.  Behind him, Beau and Caleb exchanged horrified looks.

Fifteen minutes later, Jester lurched back into camp.  She was covered in blood.  Her hands smeared in the stuff.  The lower part of her face, her teeth, her nose coated.  A good portion of her blouse was drenched in the red viscous liquid.  Her eyes were back to normal, but glassy, her face fixed in a limp frown.  She moved like she was in a thick haze.  She walked directly to the Hawker.  He met her halfway, then pulled her close and kissed her.  She didn’t fight, but she didn’t embrace either.  When he pulled away, he didn’t try to do anything about the thick smudges left on his face and clothes.

“You did a good job there.  Dessert when we get to town.”  He smiled and he turned to Beau and Caleb, his hand dragging Jester behind him.

Beau looked at Jester and she saw that her eyes were pleading with her not to judge her, not to like her less.  Beau just felt sad that her friend had to live like this.  And then that turned to anger.  Anger that this man, one that wore the body of her friend, made her live that life.

But the Hawker cut Beau’s anger off before it could boil.  “You didn’t tell me that Nonagon was in prison.  That’s a strange place for any lord, especially a rich one.  Very strange that his fiancée wouldn’t know that.  It makes me wonder if there’s any truth to what you told me.  It makes me wonder if you have any value to me at all.”

Next to her, Beau could sense Caleb trying to piece together the situation they were in, trying to make sense of Fjord and Jester and Nonagon and even Beau.  She needed him to be ready.  She needed him to have some idea of the plan.  But there was no way to warn him of what Beau hoped was coming next.

“Well?”  The Hawker spoke like he was waiting patiently to hear an excuse from a child.  “Explain yourself.”

Beau glanced at Jester.  She still seemed out of it, strung out on whatever had just happened.

“I didn’t know!” Beau blurted out. “But he’ll pay!  Once we free him, he’ll totally pay.”

The Hawker laughed and it sounded exactly like Fjord’s hearty chuckle.  “Free him?”  He looked at Jester and laughed again. “You were supposed to be a simply catch and return.  Easy money.  That’s an Empire prison.  That’s the Nierhiem Panopticon.  That’s one of the most heavily guarded institutions outside the King’s stronghold.”  He paused and fixed Beau and then Caleb with a long look.  “It’s also built to house only the most dangerous criminals in the Empire.  That makes me wonder exactly who this Nonagon is.  Do you have anything to add to that?”

Beau searched her mind.  She had two, maybe three choices.  Double down on the secret lovers story (which was a strain for her own gay ass), change the story, or tell the truth.

“And please don’t insult my rather significant intelligence by telling me the same secret wedding story.”

So that settled that.  She took a breath and told . . . another story.  It was the one that aligned the best with what Jester had told her the other night about the Hawker.

They were rebels, trying to get funds to the head of a resistance cell, Nonagon.  The jewels and other items were an easy and lightweight way to carry the money.  Caleb was another high level member of the resistance, extremely powerful.  If Nonagon was in prison, then that meant the cell had been discovered and that they had to break him out or abandon the mission.  All she was asking was to be set free.  They weren’t worth anything.

When she stopped talking, the Hawker didn’t say a word, but Jester put a hand on his shoulder.  “Hawk, this Nonagon might be a help.  If he is really such a bigwig rebel like she says, then his knowledge and skills and connections might be invaluable to the cause.”

Beau let out a deep mental sigh.  Her Jester was still there.  And if she got her way, they wouldn’t even need the plan they’d concocted to wake up Fjord, at least until they were away from the rest of the gang.

The Hawker considered Jester’s point for a moment and then shook his head.  “Anyone who gets caught is too much of a liability.  Your Nonagon is simply a risk not worth taking.”  He turned to Jester.  “So you honestly believe them?”

Jester appeared to mull over the idea, putting on a show for the Hawker.  Finally, she said, “Yes, it rings true, a lot more true than the romance angle.”

“Yeah, sorry,” said Beau, “but I needed to keep my cover.  Once it seemed like you were possibly—uh—sympathetic to our cause, well . . .”  She let him fill in the rest.

“If I let you go, what will the two of you do?”

Beau’s spirits rose and fell.  It looked like escape was within their grasp.  But that meant abandoning Jester and Fjord—the whole point of their journey.

She shrugged.  “We’d have to find a local cell and get started on a new mission.  Maybe it would be to rescue Nonagon, but probably not.”

The Hawker nodded.  Apparently, the new story was both appealing and logical enough.  “Very well.  You may go.  But the wizard must be gagged until you are out of sight.  I may believe you, but that belief does not protect myself or my people.  Is that acceptable?”

It was going to have to be, Beau knew that, and just maybe . . . .  She nodded, short and tart.  “Yeah, good enough for me and I’ll assume good enough for the wizard.”  She looked over at Caleb and he gave a nod in return.  “Okay.”

The Hawker turned to his gang, who were all standing, arms at the ready, watching the conversation.  “Grab the wizard’s things out the back.  We’re releasing them.  Marian?”

“Yes, Hawk?”  The image of Jester, speaking and moving in a normal way, while still coated in blood, disturbed Beau beyond belief.

“Untie Beau’s feet, then her hands.”

Jester nodded and scampered down on the ground next to Beau.

“Jester . . .” began Beau.

Jester’s look shut her up immediately.  It said, “No.”  It said, “I can’t.”  Most of all, it said, “I am alone.” And it broke Beau’s heart.

The rope at her feet came loose and Beau kicked it free, then Jester was at her back, working the knot out of the rope around Beau’s wrists.  The Hawker was coming back from the cart, Caleb’s component pouch and books in his hand.  As Jester finished loosening the ropes and Beau pulled her hands free, he arrived and held the pouch and books out to her.

“You take these.”  It dropped into her extended hand.  “You don’t give them to him until the gag comes off.  Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Marian!  Back away from the wizard.”  Jester had started on Caleb’s bindings, but she pulled back at the Hawker’s command.  He nodded at Beau.  “You untie him.”

Beau did, legs first, then arms.  Caleb stood up and stretched his back and then reached out his hand for the pouch and books.  The Hawker stopped that with a quick gesture.  Beau clutched them in her hands.

“Can I get the rest of my things back?”  Beau suddenly remembered all the jewelry.

“Sorry.  Consider it a donation to another branch of the cause.”  The Hawker tapped his foot.  “Now start walking.”  He gave a forward sweep of his chin.  “That way would be preferable.  My preference is your command right now.”

Beau started to turn and Jester wandered over to the Hawker’s side.  They didn’t have a reason to say goodbye.  But that had never stopped Jester.

“Goodbye, Beau.  Goodbye, stinky wizard.”

Caleb froze in mid-step.

“I wish that things could have been different.  I wish that we could have known each other better.  Maybe you could have had a really cute magic cat.”

Beau considered that more than enough of a sign.  She bumped into Caleb and started pulling at the gag.  “Jester!”

The Hawker was drawing his sword, but when Beau cried out, his face twisted into a look of confusion and he turned to Jester.

That was when Jester plunged the dagger into his side.

“I am sorry, Fjord!  I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!”  She kept on apologizing as she pulled the dagger out and pushed it into the wound again.

The Hawker staggered back and then raised his sword.  The rest of the gang was already moving.  Time was short.

Beau tugged at the gag again, but it was on too tight.  She started working at the knot and, to her astonishment, they moved easily, pulling at just the right places at just the right moments to make quick work of it.  The gag fell off and Caleb grabbed for the pouch and books where Beau had dropped them on the ground.

“Beauregard, I did not study my spells this morning, I am limited in—”

“Then use that fucking limit.  I need you to light everyone up.”  And she rushed the Hawker.

Even with his back to Beau, the Hawker saw her attack coming.  His elbow shot back and there was a wet crack as it met her nose.  Her ass pounded into the ground and she felt the blood, warm down her face.  She struggled up again, but the moment she moved towards him, his leg met her knee and she went down again.  He was faster and stronger than Fjord, that was for sure.  He was also still advancing on Jester.  It wasn’t part of the plan to kill him, of course, but Beau was worried that Jester wouldn’t have a choice.  She started to pull herself up again, but her leg gave out and she ate dirt, cursing all the way.  Behind Jester, the gang was rushing up _en masse_ and Beau knew that their window for success was closing quickly.

That’s when Caleb lit the campsite up with flames—flames curling from the bodies of half the gang members.  They screamed, clawing at their bodies as they turned to char and crumbled to the ground.  The others froze, horrified, in place.  Beau glanced back and saw a page from Caleb’s spell book disappearing in a spray of arcane sparks.  She saw the pain creasing his face.

The Hawker stopped his advance, his knuckles white on the grip of his sword.  He looked over his shoulder and then back at his men and shouted, “Kill the wizard!”

The rest of the group immediately charged, swords and crossbows ready.  Beau pushed up through the pain in her knee and launched herself at the gang.  Caleb’s eyes were down on his spell book, muttering another incantation.

Meanwhile, the Hawker’s head snapped back to Jester.  He advanced on her, a grim look on his face.  As he approached he seemed to test the weight of the blade, swinging it threateningly towards Jester.  “You know, I can’t be certain why you thought betrayal was the cogent choice, but if the world has taught me anything, a whore’s daughter is unlikely to be anything more than a whore.”

Jester backed up as the Hawker approached, holding the dagger at the ready, her other hand gleaming with arcane energy.  There was shouting and crackling bursts to her side, the sound of burning and bodies hitting the ground, but she didn’t take her eyes off the Hawker.

“Why don’t you strike me with that spell?”  He was closer, almost within blades reach.  “What’s the matter, are you unable to throw the killing blow?”  He swung the sword and it cut across Jester’s already bloody blouse, slicing into the cloth, but just missing her flesh.  Jester squeaked.  The Hawker took one big step forward.  “Sentimentality will get you killed.”  And he pounced.

The strike was brutal, intended to kill with a single blow.  Jester tried to block with the dagger, but the pure force behind the sword caused it to fly back, the sword glancing an inch to the side where it embedded itself in the crook of her neck.  The sword was cold as the weight of the weapon and its bearer pushed Jester to her knees.  She reached up, clutching at the Hawker’s hands where they gripped the sword, pushing up, trying to pull the sword away.  “Please,” she said, “Please, Fjord.”

The Hawker let go of the sword, his hands loose and soft in Jester’s hands.  He looked down.  His eyes searched her face.  “Jester?”  There was a familiar drawl.

Fjord collapsed on top of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original draft by ginnyvos ([@ginnyvos](http://ginnyvos.tumblr.com)). Revision and expansion by bboiseux ([@bboiseux](http://bboiseux.tumblr.com))


	4. The Weight of Memory

One of the carts was on fire.  Most of the horses had escaped.  Beau was fairly certain a couple of the Hawker’s gang members had run off, but the bright throbbing pain in her leg made it hard to think.  She knew a lot of the gang were mangled, bloody, or black ashy corpses on the ground around her and Caleb.  Caleb had left the camp a graveyard.  She had done little more than defend herself.

Caleb was sitting on the blankets, his face buried in his hands, his spell book in his lap.  Beau was a few yards away, one leg straight, trying to get leverage on her other knee.  She looked over at where she had last seen Jester and the Hawker.  Where she had last seen the Hawker about to cut Jester to pieces.

Jester was sitting in the middle of the camp, covered in fresh blood, a vibrant red over the darker color of the blood already soaked into her clothes.  One hand was on her neck, where an icy glow was pumping into her body.  The other was cradling the Hawker’s head.  She was leaning down and talking softly to him.

“Did it work?”  Beau tried to push herself to standing and fell back to the ground in a string of expletives. She screwed up her face and buried the pain, pushing it into the dirt.  This time when she stood she felt the leg bow outward at a strange angle (a hot burning jabbing up her leg and into her neck), but she walked anyway, crooked and shuffling.  “Jester?  Did it work?”

Jester hadn’t known then, but they found out later.  After Jester pumped Fjord full of healing energy.  After she healed Beau’s leg and nose and arm.  After she tended to Caleb’s wounds.  After she snarled at an invisible voice that she was “allowed to heal.”  Jester stayed close to Fjord.  Beau stayed close to Jester.  Caleb stayed close to Beau.  He kept his head in his spell book.

When Fjord woke up, it was with a full body cough that forced him to sitting.  He hacked away at the air, clutching at his sides, and gave a frantic look around, his hand stretching out as if to hold a sword.  When the sword didn’t appear, he looked around again and saw Jester and Beau and Caleb sitting at his side.  He ran a hand through his hair.  “What—”  Then his eyes fixed on Jester.  “Jess, I’m—I’m sorry about all of--”

Halfway through the sentence, Jester had already launched herself into a hug, knocking Fjord to the ground.  “I knew you were back.”

Fjord’s arms flailed in the air as Jester squeezed him tight and then he pulled her close.  “I’m so glad you’re safe.”  The two of them sat up.

Beau was cocking her head at Fjord.  “Wait a fucking second,” she said, “You just apologized to her.”

“Yeah, seemed like it was due after all I—the Hawker—did to her.”

“It was mostly good, Fjord,” said Jester.

Fjord gave her a hand a light squeeze, his eyes filled with sorrow.  “It really wasn’t, Jess.  I was—he was awful to you.  I don’t care how good he was between.”

“He was the first person who was nice to me here.”  She looked at Fjord from lowered eyes and whispered, “Just like you.”

“I—”

“No.”  Beau pushed in.  “I’m sorry, Jester.  I need to know.”  She turned to Fjord.  “Do you remember being the Hawker?”

Fjord gave a sharp nod.  “Yeah.  It’s weird, but I do.”

Beau turned on Caleb.  She felt the anger bubbling up, but she tried to tamp it down.  “Do you remember?  Do you remember being the other you?”

Caleb stared into space and then gave a dreamy nod.  “ _Ja._   I remember all of it.”

“Shit, Caleb,” said Beau, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I can remember, but I would rather not linger on that life.  I—” He broke off and fixated on a random stone on the ground.  “—I already know what I am capable of.  I do not need further proof.”  For Caleb, that appeared to be the end of the conversation.

Beau turned to Fjord.  “What about you?  What do you remember?”

Fjord glanced at Jester and she shied away from his gaze. “I guess anything you’d remember if you’d, ah, lived that life.  It’s all jumbled up, like I know what my life was like, but at some point I started living two lives.  I know which one is wrong, but it still feels real.”

“Jester?”  Beau’s voice seemed to shock Jester’s head up.  “Do you remember anything about—about the other you?”

“No.”  Jester shook her head vigorously.  “We were fighting Trent and then I was there—” She faltered.  “—in my room.  But I don’t remember anything about . . . her life—being her.”

“Yeah, me either.  I don’t remember anything about this Neha chick.  But you, Fjord, and you, Caleb, both remember.”  She pointed a finger at each in turn.  “What’s different?”

Caleb scowled.  “It does not matter.  We are wasting time trying to untangle things we do not understand.”

“Well, fuck, Caleb.  I’m trying to figure something out.”

Caleb took a sharp breath in through his nose.  “I—I know you are Beauregard.  But I’ve been studying this book.”  He tapped the spell book in his lap, the one that had belonged to his other self.  “And I have been remembering that other past.  And I think I understand what has happened to us.”

Jester jumped forward with glee, nearly knocking Fjord over again.  Fjord gave Caleb a quizzical look.

Beau said, “And why the fuck didn’t you mention this before.”

Caleb massaged his temples.  “Because I have just figured it out.”  He looked at each of the others in turn, trying to organize his thoughts as succinctly as possible.  “It is like Fjord said.  I have two images that are superimposed over each other.  My real life and . . . this.”  He gestured broadly at the mountains around them.  “I can remember all the details.  What this other version of me saw and did.  But they are all pieces.”  He sighed.  “I have all the parts, but I do not have the context.  I cannot remember what this other me was except in his actions, what he say and did.  I do not have access to his internal life.”

‘Yeah.”  Fjord nodded.  “It’s like—like a bunch of pictures in a book scattered across the table.  You can put them in order and you can figure the story out, but without the words you don’t really get what the book is about.”

“ _Ja.  Ja._ ”  Caleb was enthusiastic.  “That is precisely it.  Precisely it.”  He pointed at the spell book again.  “I remember everything needed to learn these spells, but I don’t have the learning.  _I_ didn’t learn them, so now I am left with the results of learning, but not the learning itself.”

“This is some heady shit,” said Beau.

“I think that’s exactly what this is,” said Caleb, “Some heady shit.”

Jester chewed at her thumb as they talked around her.  “I have spells I didn’t have before and I can’t do some of the spells I could do before.”

Fjord rested a hand on her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.  “I’ve got the same thing.  I don’t have any spells, but hell if this body isn’t a whole lot stronger and more ready for battle.”

“Yeah, I get that,” said Beau, “So Jester didn’t have her thing with the Traveler.  And Fjord didn’t have whatever the hell thing he had.  And I didn’t train to be a monk.  And you, Caleb, well, you stayed.  Our histories are etched on our bodies, so that’s what we’ve got.  Okay, sure.”  Now she fixed Caleb in the eyes.  “So why are we like this?”

“It is an illusion.  Much more powerful than I have ever seen.  But an illusion.”

“So this isn’t real?” asked Jester “He didn’t change the world?”

“ _Nein_.  He changed us and removed us from the world.”  He flipped through a couple pages.  “ _Ja_ , I think that’s it.”

“Alright,” said Fjord, “So what do we do about it?  How do we get out of this?”

“Ah, well—I have an idea, but it may be wrong.”

“Shit, Caleb.  Any idea is better than nothing.”

“I agree.  That is why I am telling you.”  He took a deep breath. “I think that we are in some kind of shared dream.  If I am reading these spells correctly, if I am remembering correctly, then Trent has trapped us in a world of his making that is sustained by our own minds.  He makes a, uh, foundation.  One where we become the things we hate most or designed to torture us, at least.  And then our own belief in the world keeps it going.  It—it is actually an incredibly intricate spell.  He can trap groups in their own personal hell and they will stay there until they are all dead.”

“But--” Jester twirled her hair around a finger. “—if it is our own minds that keep it going, then why are we still here?  Why don’t we escape when we remember?”

“That is the genius of it.”  Caleb seemed genuinely excited by the possibilities.  “Once the spell is in place, even a single mind believing it can maintain it.”

“So if we’re still here, that means that Molly, Yasha, and Nott are still alive.”  Beau almost smiled.  “Jester, that means they’re still out there.”

“Well,” said Fjord, “I don’t think that’s quite right.  It only requires one mind left.  Right, Caleb?”

“ _Ja._ ” Caleb’s usually sullen face was darker than usual. “It only tells us that one of them is alive and still dreaming.  And that is only if I am right.”

“But, hell,” said Beau, “that could mean that all of them are alive and two of them are themselves.”

“It is possible.”

“Alright,” said Fjord, “let’s get down to brass tacks.  How do we get out?”

“If we all stop dreaming, then the spell can’t sustain itself.  Then—poof—the world disappears.  And we are back in the real world, totally ourselves.”

“But ‘stop dreaming’ can mean two things, right?”

“ _Ja._ ”

Fjord met Beau’s grim eyes and gave Jester a feeble attempt at a smile.

“So,” said Beau, “it’s either wake up or die.”

Caleb nodded.

The words “wake up” seemed to have unlocked something in Jester.  She repeated them under her breath, seeming to try and catch the reason they felt . . . right.  But she quickly shook the thoughts away.  “Then it is wake up.”  Jester looked at each of them.  “We’re going to find our friends.  We will get to Molly first and then do whatever it takes to get Yasha and Nott back.”

Fjord coughed, an awkward forced clearing of his throat.  “Yeah, about that.  We’re going to need someone to help use get into that prison to even get near Molly.  And the Hawker happens to know a goblin that’s good with locks and a crossbow.”

The others were watching him intently now.

“I think I know where Nott is.”

***

Fjord hadn’t warned them about the smell.

Shortly after their talk, the four of them had hitched up a cart and headed north towards Nierhiem, deeper into the mountains.  Following his memories, Fjord was able to lead them to a small farmhouse a few miles outside the city.  Simple.  Wooden slats for walls that had begun to rot.  A thatched roof that had long passed the point of care.  The house looked as though it hadn’t seen a resident in at least a decade.  The roof had mostly fallen in and rotted.  The wooden structure crowded over with green-blue mold. Whatever would have passed as a livestock pen adjacent to the house was completely dilapidated, fence fallen in on itself.

But what was most prominent was the smell.  As the group reached the front of the ruined building, a musty stench of decay tinged with excrement and disease assaulted Beau’s nose. She reflexively clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling the urge to be sick at the overwhelming smell.  The others were doing the same.  There was a worn, but official-looking document nailed to the door.  She couldn’t make out most of the words from this distance, but the bold letters at the top were still clear: CONTAMINATED—NO ENTRY PERMITTED.

The four paused a few feet from the door.  They had figured out the approach, but now, seeing the way Nott was living, the task seemed even more difficult.  Why did all of them have to suffer?  And then to wake up . . . .

It would be Yeza, of course.  That’s what they had figured out.  If anything would twist Nott, it would be killing Yeza, instead of saving him.  If they were right, all they would have to do was confront her and Nott would be back.  That’s all.  Just twist the knife in the wound.  It had worked for Caleb.  It had worked for Fjord.  It would work for Nott.

Fjord gave everyone a nod, making sure they were all in position.  Caleb was just out of sight to the right of the door.  Beau was a few yards away, directly in front of the door.  And Jester was at Fjord’s side.  She was part of the Hawker’s troupe.  Then Fjord rapped three times on the door.

A faint shuffling came from inside, and the barest hint of a muffled curse word.  Then “Go away!”

Fjord spoke but his voice wasn’t his own.  It was the Hawker’s. “Nesh.  It’s me.  I have a job for you.”

There was a brief pause, then the sound of a very rusted latch opening.  The door squealed on its hinges as it swung inward a few inches.  A pungent stench of alcohol and musty rot and . . . something else wafted through the crack, like the smack of a cresting wave.  Beau saw even Fjord wrinkle up his nose before settling back into his calm, calculating look.  Through the crack, Beau recognized the metallic glint of a crossbow bolt peeking through the doorway.  The point visibly trembled as its owner tried and mostly succeeded in keeping the bolt aimed at Fjord’s chest.  Fjord, for his part, gave no reaction.

“Wh—what kind of job?  I don’t want anything with killing.”  The reedy voice was slurring heavily.

Caleb twitched at the sound of Nott’s voice.

“I’ve brought others.  They can explain it.”  Even now, at the last minute, Fjord was maintaining the voice of the Hawker.

Fjord stepped to one side, revealing Beau.  She could just make out a watery yellow eye catching the sunlight.

Nesh dropped the point of the crossbow, her eyes wide, and then immediately brought it up again, bracing it in both hands, holding the aim firm on Beau.  “No.  No!”  She started backing into the house, disappearing into shadows.  “Not another one.  Please.  I—I can’t take another one.”

Beau took a step forward.  “Hey.”  She raised her hands. “It’s okay.  We just want to talk about—”  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Caleb giving her a shake of the head and she stopped.

Caleb stepped out into the doorway.  Nesh stared up at his looming form, her eyes growing wider.

“Ca—Caleb?”  It was a squeak, to the point that Beau wasn’t sure that she heard it.

Fjord shot Beau a questioning glance.

Caleb knelt down, not approaching the goblin any closer.  “Do you remember me, my friend?”

The crossbow dropped to the ground.  “Caleb?  Is that really you?”

“ _Ja_ , _mein Liebchen_ , it’s really me.”  And he pulled Nott into a hug, wrapping her in his arms.  After a moment of hesitation, Nott’s arms gripped him and she nuzzled her head into his arm.

The other three approached slowly, giving the two space, until Jester, leaning over towards the house said, “Nott, you are super stinky?”  It was a question of concern, not of judgment.  Jester seemed honestly terrified by Nott’s state.

Nott pulled away and looked at the rest of the group.  She was crying.  “I’m so happy you’re all here.”  Then she seemed to sink into her body and she flashed to Fjord.  “Wait!  Why were you talking like that?  Why were you—”

Fjord held up a calming hand.  “It’s alright.  I didn’t know, so I—”  He shifted his voice.  “—affected an appropriate accent.”  He dropped back into his drawl.  “But this is me.”

Outside, in the sun, Beau could see Nott more clearly.  She was a mess.  Everything about her seemed wasted away.  Her hair was stringy and thin, as were her arms and legs.  Her cheeks and nose were marked with trails of purple from burst blood vessels.  And Beau thought she detected a slightly yellower tint to Nott’s already yellow eyes.

“Nott, uh, are you okay?”

Nott stared at her for a long time before she answered.  Her answer was a shriek.  “No!  I’m not okay!  I’ve been stuck here for a year!  I’ve been alone.  And then he comes along and I think things are going to change and they’re worse!”  She cast a withering glare at Fjord.  “I’m not okay!  Everything is shit!”

Caleb clamped a hand on Nott’s shoulder.  “ _Ja_ , this sucks.  But we are here now and we can start to make it better, huh?  We can do that together.  You and me and everyone else.  Just like before.”

As Caleb spoke, Nott seemed to breath more evenly.

“Yeah.  That sounds nice.”

“We are going to save Molly and Yasha and then we can go home.  We will wake up from all of this like a bad dream.”

Jester wrinkled her brow again, as if listening for something just out of range.

***

Despite what her father thought, Beau had actually liked learning the history of the Empire.  Once you stripped away the embellishments and the nationalist rhetoric, it was surprisingly good at detailing the ways the Dwendalian Empire had been shitty to a whole lot of people. And Beau very clearly remembered learning about the Nierhiem Panopticon.

The Nierhiem Panopticon was one of those things that people outside the central empire probably never heard about or only vaguely knew the details about.  But in the center of the Empire, it was a point of local pride.  The edifice that had been entrusted to them.  The duty that had been entrusted to them.

The Panopticon was built in the early years of the Empire, right after the first expansion and before the Empire was pushed into war of attrition with the Coast that it finally lost.  It was meant to be a monument to the role of religion in the reform of deviant criminals.  It was presented as a major change in the treatment of criminals.  Instead of simply locking criminals away in large group cells to rot, they would each be housed in small individual cells and provided with religious texts of any of the major gods.  There, the criminals would contemplate their wrongs and their place in the world in perfect isolation, trapped not with others, but only with their own mind.  It was believed that this would allow criminals to change their souls and give themselves over to the gods of the Empire.  And, in turn, give themselves over to the Empire itself.

What had actually happened and what had made Beau remember this little piece of history was that the prisoners had gone insane.  A man, incarcerated for stealing a loaf of bread, gouged out his own eyes.  A woman, imprisoned for worshiping the wrong god, painted murals out of shit.  Another prisoner, imprisoned for slander, jumped a guard and beat him within an inch of his life.  And so on and so on.  The new idea didn’t work.

So the Empire, being the Empire, had simply changed it from a place of reform to a place of torture.  Instead of being an idyllic place of contemplation, the Panopticon became a hell for the worst criminals of the Empire.  The cells were divided up into smaller and smaller cells until the prisoners could barely move.  The walls were made taller and thicker and manacles a daily fact of life.  Religious texts were still provided to all prisoners.

And now Beau was looking right at the Nierhiem Panopticon, nestled against the side of a mountain, the city of Nierheim spreading out around it, the main city square sitting at the mouth of the prison.  They knew Molly was inside.  They knew where he was, down to the exact cell.  They knew the precise movements of the guards, learning them from continuous observations in the three days since they had arrived.  They knew when meals were served and when lights went out.  They knew who the nastiest guards were and who were just townsfolks doing their job.  They knew the chief guard’s favorite food.  They knew the name of the warden’s mistress.

What they didn’t know was how they were going to get Molly out.

Beau slid off the edge of the building, pulling herself up next to Nott’s sniper’s nest on the roof.  They’d been taking turns watching these last few days, but today was the day of decision.  Nonagon’s execution was scheduled for tomorrow at noon.  It was to be a big event.  An enemy of the Empire, conspiring with dark forces to overthrow the throne, who had cursed the soldiers that had captured him.  It had been an easy story to get out of the townsfolk. It was too good not to believe.  The scaffold was being built at the center of the town square, close to the prison.  Up here on the roof, the hammer falls of the construction echoed, ringing out sporadically as the gallows rose higher.  Tonight they would finish the construction and tomorrow Nonagon would hang.  And Molly would hang with him.

“Fuck.”  Beau rolled onto her back, looking up at the sky above.

Nott was sitting, back against the edge of the building, crossbow across her lap.  She looked . . . better?  She was happier at least.  But the year of intense drinking had done its work on her little goblin body and Beau suspected there was no coming back.  Her hands had a slight tremor and her hair hung greasy and thread-like down her back.

They had been right, of course, about Yeza.  Nott had tortured him.  She had killed him.  What they hadn’t guessed was that Nott had woken up at the moment she killed him.  It hadn’t been like Beau or Jester.  She had been someone else.  She had the memories to prove it.  The memories of being a good goblin.  But she had woken up at that pivotal moment.  She had been awake for over a year.  Nott’s drinking had been heavy back in the real world.  Beau had a hard time imagining how much drinking she had had to do to destroy her body the way she had, but she had done it.

Nott coughed.  “Um, Beau?”

Beau grunted as she struggled to sit up in one smooth motion—her abs just weren’t up to the effort—but she got there.  She looked out over the city.  A city she had learned about, but never seen in her real life.  “Yeah?”

“I wanted to give you something.”

Beau looked over questioningly at Nott.  “What kind of something?”

“Uh, well—”  Nott reached into the bag slung over her shoulder.  She pulled out a wine bottle and thrust it towards Beau.

Beau cocked her head and took it, feeling the glassy coolness in her palm.  It was empty (of course) and an opaque brown.  She turned it over and stopped, running a finger over the label.  “It’s my family’s brand.”  Gripping it by the throat, she offered it back to Nott.  “I don’t get it.”

“You keep it,” Nott said, “When I first came to—when I ran—I don’t know, I tried finding things that reminded me of all of you.”  She tapped the bottle.  “I didn’t even mean to find that.  I just stole it because—well, you know.  But I saw the name and I decided to save it.  I was going to keep the wine, but I really needed it one night.”

Beau looked down at the bottle.  “You sure you don’t want to keep it?”

Nott waved a dismissive hand.  “Nah. I’ve got you now.  I don’t need trinkets like that.”

Beau prided herself on not feeling.  She pictured her heart like a huge callus.  Sure, she could feel a little, but it was so dull and really, who gave a shit about that?  But now it was like Nott had reached over and ripped the callus away to reveal a raw interior.  This was Nott.  She liked Nott.  But Nott wasn’t supposed to be looking out for the rest of them.  It had always been Caleb first, Nott second, everyone else third.  Yet, here she was, alone for a year and she had collected little remembrances of each of them.

Beau couldn’t help herself.  “What did you find for the others?”

“Oh, just silly things.  I found a model of a boat for Fjord and a book doodled with rude pictures and words for Jester and, of course, a magical book for Caleb.  I gave that to him the first night after you found me.”  Speaking like this, Nott seemed to have drifted into a happy reverie.  “I gave Jester and Fjord theirs yesterday.”

Beau looked at the bottle still clutched in her hands, then she set it down on the hard roof.  “What did you find for Molly?”

Nott’s eyes went wide and she let out a surprised “oh!”  She turned and dug through her bag and pulled out what Beau had expected: a deck of tarot cards.

Beau nodded.  “Yeah.  Makes perfect sense.  Well, you bring those with us tomorrow, so you can give them to him, alright?”  She patted Nott’s hand and stood up, offering her hand down to Nott.

Nott stuffed the cards in the bag and reached out.

The others were in a room on the next floor down.  There were only two beds, but somehow it felt better for all five of them to stay together.  There was this deep fear that if any of them walked off alone, they wouldn’t come back the same.  That they’d pass in the hallway and the other person would look at them like a stranger.

Caleb had thrown himself into his study of the spell book.  He was convinced that he was only one insight away from figuring out exactly what had happened.  One insight away from being certain they would wake up.  That his theory wasn’t just the delusion of a dying mind.

Fjord kept constant watch at the window, his sword always balanced in his hand.  Jester sat on the bed, writing in her journal.  She didn’t draw anymore.  Every once in a while, when the other’s back was turned, Beau would catch each of them glancing quickly at the other.  In the real world, those looks had always been distracted and lovelorn.  The kind of looks that made Beau want to gag.  She had always preferred when Jester was in the mood and gave Fjord a hard-on horn dog look.  That Beau could understand.  Now, the looks were just ones of shame.  They didn’t talk about it and Beau didn’t ask.

As Beau and Nott came into the room, Nott immediately crawled up next to Caleb’s hunched figure and pulled out her flask.  When they had first got to Nierhiem, they had tried making her go dry, but the next day the shakes had been so bad that Nott had to start up again.  They didn’t try after that.  When she wasn’t on the roof watching, she sat there, as much of her body touching Caleb as possible.  She stared at the wall, sucking at her flask.

Beau settled on the bed next to Jester and gave her a nudge with her shoulder.  Jester flashed her a grin and went back to writing.

Over at the window, Fjord spoke, his eyes still fixed out the window, “Any change?”

“Same movements,” said Beau, with a shake of her head, “We’d be crazy to go in there after him.”

“So the execution.”  Fjord wasn’t questioning.  It was just confirming what they all knew: the rescue had to be at the scaffold.  A last minute rescue with too many variables to count, but one that was possible.  Unlike breaching the Panopticon.  Fjord took a deep breath and settled into silence.

Beau looked at her friends.  Each was slumped into their own little world.  Fjord at the window.  Jester and Caleb in their books.  Nott into Caleb.  Beau ran her hand across her belly, feeling the rolls of fat, the softness that was so normal, but felt so wrong to her.  But it was her body.  It was her way of being in the world.  But she had her mind.  Fjord, Caleb, and Nott were trapped by those other people.  Jester was trapped by her pact—a pact she couldn’t remember but that she felt every day.  Beau had got off easy.  And she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had Yasha to thank for that.  She had been Beau’s guardian angel in the moment she needed it most.

Yasha, the one person they couldn’t find.

Beau let out a single frustrated shout, her hands clenched into fists.

Everyone else snapped out of their thoughts and stared at Beau.  She stared back, breathing heavily, not worrying about the evenness of her breaths.

“Caleb,” she said.

“ _Ja_ , Beauregard?”

“How certain are you that we will get out of this fucking nightmare once everyone remembers?”

Caleb regarded her intently, as if judging how much of the truth he should tell.  “I am as certain as I can be.”  He gestured at the book in his lap.  “This is far more complex than any of the incantations I have studied and practiced.  It is—it is possible that the state of our minds doesn’t matter.”

“But you’re fairly certain, right?” said Fjord.

Caleb shifted so he could focus on Fjord.  “I think I am right, _ja._   Based on the sigils used and the schools of magic . . . it makes sense.  When the last of us comes back, the spell will be broken and we will wake up.”

Jester squeaked, pencil hanging in her hand above the journal.  Beau felt the bed bounce with her enthusiasm.  “Say that again, Caleb!”

Caleb gave a tired sigh.  “Say what again, Jester?”

“You said, ‘wake up.’  Wake up.  Wake up.  Wake.  Up.”  Her finger bounced along her journal as she chanted the words.

Beau looked over her shoulder.  Jester was pointing at line after line of words, each grouped in pairs of one syllable words.

“This is what the Traveler has been saying!  I couldn’t understand it.  It was too far away.  But if you are saying it, Caleb, and the Traveler is saying it, it must be right!”

“Shit, Jester—”  Beau traded glances with the other three.  “—are you sure?”

“It is very far away and I can only hear it sometimes, but . . . yes!  I am very sure!”  Jester slapped the book closed and hugged it close to her chest.  “The Traveler didn’t abandon me.  He’s here!  He’s been trying to help!”

“Well,” said Fjord, “If Caleb and Jester believe it, I’m willing to go with it.”

Beau and Nott agreed and that agreement seemed to open the floodgates.  It opened up a space for hope.  Hope that tomorrow might be another step closer to the end.  So they talked and planned and planned again, late into the night, going over every possible detail of the next day.  Where they should stand.  What each of them should do.  How to handle Nonagon.  How to escape.

Finally, Nott dropped off into an alcohol-induced slumber and the others followed close behind.

Beau shared a bed with Jester.  She’d decided that Jester needed that after the first night, when Jester had woken up screaming at the darkest point of the night.  Beau didn’t know what she heard or what she saw, but Beau had made it a point to sleep close to Jester from that point on, cuddling with her and holding her tight until she heard Jester’s breathing grow steady.  The last two nights, when Jester had jerked awake, Beau had been there with her and had pulled Jester into a tight hug.  The fear had still been there, but even though Beau’s grasp was weak, she could feel the fear drain away.  Jester never said anything, she just reached behind and ran her fingers through Beau’s hair.

Tonight, as the darkest part of the night approached, Beau still wasn’t asleep.  She had been lying on her back, Jester asleep on one arm, staring at the ceiling.  It wasn’t in her nature to worry.  It didn’t do any fucking good anyway.  But she did feel off.  Like there was something missing from their plan—a hole that she couldn’t quite grasp.  Her eyes bore into the blackness around her as she tried to find it.  They had covered as many contingencies as they could.  And there were so many that they couldn’t, but that wasn’t the problem.  As the darkness grew deeper, Beau reviewed the plan again and again. 

And, slowly, steadily, she moved towards the hole until it was clear in her mind’s eye.

They were missing Molly.

Nonagon was part of the plan, but Molly wasn’t.  They would get Nonagon out and they would worry about Molly later.  But what if that wasn’t possible?  What if keeping Nonagon in the picture was the biggest weakness of their plan?  He was a complete unknown.  A hole in their plan.  A hole that could be filled with Molly.

Beau carefully pulled her arm out from under Jester (there was only the barest murmuring and shifting from the sleeping tiefling) and maneuvered herself to the edge of the bed until her bare feet were firm on the wooden floor.  Nott’s bag was on the floor by the bed.  Beau crept to it and squatted down, her fingers undoing the clasp and searching inside.  There were a lot of bottles, cold and empty, and the feel of a lot of little trinkets of various sizes: metal, wood, circle, square, smooth, sharp.   But the one Beau was grasping for was easily identifiable.  Her fingers tightened around the solid rectangular box and pulled it out.  A set of tarot cards.  Beau stole a glance at the sleeping Nott and then flipped open the lid.  She didn’t want to take this from Nott, but one card wouldn’t hurt.  Beau fumbled with them, trying to work one out of the box, finessing it from its brothers and sisters until she felt the waxy feel of the paper between her fingers.  She folded it up and slid it in a pocket.

Beau didn’t know why, but she felt better now, having a talisman of Molly.

For tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original draft by ginnyvos ([@ginnyvos](http://ginnyvos.tumblr.com)) & TheLastNoel ([@the-last-noel06](http://the-last-noel06.tumblr.com)). Revision and expansion by bboiseux ([@bboiseux](http://bboiseux.tumblr.com)).


	5. The View from the Gallows

They arrived early, but not so early as to raise suspicion—they were strangers after all.  The crowd was already gathering.  The vendors were already set up, hawking their wares in broad cries, filling the square around the gallows with the smell of hot meat.  The whole atmosphere was carnival like.  The townspeople were dressed in finery.  The children were carried on shoulders, so they could get the best view.  Little toy swords and axes were available for just a copper piece.  The guards, waiting for the execution progression, exchanged smiles with the crowd, addressing many by name.  This was a prison town, after all.  The Panopticon was the main source of employment in Nierhiem.  These guards were family and friends to many of the people in the ever-widening crowd.  Beau tried not to think about that.  About the loyalty they were going to face if their plan went wrong.

They each staked out their position, making sure they were at the very front of the crowd.  They could feel the surge of the crowd towards the gallows.  Eight Crown’s Guard patrolled the no man’s land there.  For now, the crowd was docile.  The guards traded barbs with a man to the right of Beau and another guard across the way seemed to be flirting with a woman in a purple frock coat.  But Beau noticed that their hands rested steady on the pommel of their swords.  Executions might be regular town events, but they were nervous about this one.  It was possible the stories about Nonagon and his curses had been a bit too much for the nerves of the guards.  Or maybe they just knew they were true.  After all, these guards probably knew Nonagon better than Beau did.  She would only see him for the first time when he arrived at the square to die.

The plan was simple, but tricky.  Everyone was spread out around the gallows.  At the moment Nonagon fell through the trap door, Caleb would throw up an illusion and Nott would shoot out the rope.  If Nott missed, Fjord would rush in and cut the rope with his sword.  If everything went right, the crowd would see Nonagon dancing at the end of the rope, watching him choke out his last breath.  If everything went right, under that illusion Beau would be throwing the extra cloak she had stashed in her bag over Nonagon and she and Fjord would be sneaking him into the crowd and away from his death.  If everything went right.

There was a lot that could go wrong.  The number one in Beau’s mind was the rope.  If Nott missed and the executioner was skilled, Nonagon’s neck would snap the moment he hit the end of the rope.  Dead instantly.  That would be the end of Molly, no suffering.  They had a lot riding on the cruelty of the town, the idea that they would want to torture him to the end.  But—Beau looked around at the thronging mass around her—she thought they had bet right.  Number two was the crowd.  Beau was sure that Caleb could manage the illusion.  But if anyone in the town caught sight of the trick, of Nonagon, they could be facing a mob in no time.  The backup was hell on earth, burn the crowd, and Beau didn’t think Caleb could survive that.  She wasn’t sure any of them could survive going that far to win.

So now it was time to wait.  She pulled her cloak close, making sure the hood was pulled tight over her close cropped hair.  She tensed her hand on the knife at her side.  She listened to the mundane conversations that swirled around her.  The husband and wife arguing about the business.  The child whining about the view.  The woman talking to a friend about the wash that she had to get done.  The two well-dress gentlemen who were making bets on how long it would take the prisoner to die.  And in front of her was the gallows.

It was a bare structure, made to be built and torn down easily, but to be firm and solid for its work.  It had also clearly been built to provide the maximum view to the crowd.  You didn’t need much height to hang a person, but the platform of this gallows was ten feet off the ground.  The stairs leading upward were broad.  Beau could imagine the footsteps on the planks making a thick, resonant noise as the executioner and his charge rose above the murmurs and shouts of the crowd.

Shouts that were getting loader.  Cheers that were cascading through a turning crowd.

The prisoner was here.  Beau couldn’t see over the crowd, but she didn’t have to.  The people were going wild and the surge of the crowd pulled away from her towards the edges of the square.  She took the breathing room while she had it and cast her eyes around again.  The Crown’s Guard at the gallows were shifting towards the space near the stairs of the structure, their hands now tight on the hilt of their swords.  They’d be forcing the crowd back to make a path soon.

Beau glanced up at the gallows.  At the loop of rope that was already standing ready.  She took a calming breath and soothed the untrained responses of her body.  She’d be damned if adrenaline was going to ruin her responses now.  This body might not be hers but her mind had control over this body.  Her mind  would focus and—

Her eyes twitched at a carriage she hadn’t noticed before.  It was on the opposite side of the square from her, on a slight rise in the road, so that it looked out over the crowd, almost level with the gallows.  It was turned to provide the occupants a clear view of the proceedings, while also allowing them to remain seated and anonymous in the carriage.  Typical upper-class bullshit.  Except—except that wasn’t what caught Beau’s eye.  What caught Beau’s eye was the seal worked into the filigree of the carriage door.  It was the seal of the Cerberus Assembly.

Caleb had warned them that this might happen.  That Nonagon might be a big enough name for the highest levels of the Empire to take an interest in his death.  If they wanted to ensure the execution happened, a member of the Assembly would come to bear witness.  Beau didn’t know how Nonagon had earned such interest, but he clearly had.

She scanned the crowd.  Fjord should be on the other side of the gallows, ready to move.  If she could catch his eye . . . .  She took a step in front of the person to her right, trying to sidle around for a better view.

A gloved hand clamped on her shoulder and she looked up into the face of a Crown’s Guard.  She saw his eyes do a quick assessment and he gently pushed her back into place.  “Sorry, Ma’am.  No movement while the prisoner approaches the scaffold.”

She nodded meekly, trying to give her best impression of a frightened townsperson.  It must have done the trick because the Crown’s Guard turned and walked back towards the path that was being opened up in the crowd.  Across the square, she heard the harsh rap of a drum start up—it was the sign that the progression of the condemned was beginning.  Now, the crowd was fixed entirely away from the gallows.  Beau looked over her shoulder, trying to find a glimpse of Fjord.  She just saw a sea of people.  This was one of the problems with this plan.  They were isolated in a mass of threats.

The drumming was coming closer and the Crown’s Guard by the gallows began opening up a space in the crowd as the steady rhythm beat its way from the prison to the scaffold.  Beau still couldn’t see Nonagon, but he had to be almost to her.  The drum was a dull thump in her chest.  The crowd was growing wilder, surging forward with more and more force.  Beau could make out the swift movements of Crown’s Guard pushing the crowd back.

Then the first person in the procession broke through into Beau’s vision.  It was a woman, dressed just like all the other Crown’s Guard, but with a drum strapped firmly to her front.  Two drumsticks beat out the sharp beat of the march.  Close behind her was a pair of Crown’s Guard, then another.  The drummer walked to the steps and then turned to her right, an exact ninety degree turn that brought her next to the steps.  The other Crown’s Guard spread out with similar precision.  Each found their place as the line of guards continued.

And then Nonagon stepped into view.

There wasn’t much to see at first.  His head was covered with a bag, his ankles and wrists shackled together.  He was pulled along on a chain by a guard, who pulled him to the first step of the gallows.  He let Nonagon fall into the steps and then pulled him up with a power tug on the chain.  Two guards grabbed his arms and lined him up with the steps.  Another took up a place at his back, sword drawn.  Then they pulled the bag off.

It was Molly.  Beau knew because it was a purple tiefling with red eyes.  But after that the certainty fell away.  It wasn’t because of the missing tattoos.  Beau knew intellectually that Molly had gained those after his rebirth—a rebirth that hadn’t happened here.  It wasn’t because of the clothes.  His clothes were prison garb because he had been in prison.  It wasn’t because of the way he stood or walked.  The chains were heavy and brought a slight lean to his body.  It was because of his smile.

Because he was smiling, now, as he stood at the bottom of the steps, flanked and surrounded by armed guards.  It wasn’t Molly’s smile.  The lips curled back tight across the face.  The teeth peeked out, white and sharpened.  But the eyes stayed flat.  No wrinkles at the corner.  No droop to the eyelids.  The eyes stayed as wide as the lips.  It was a smile that said, “I see you.”  It said, “I know exactly how you have wrong you have done.”  It said, “You are next.”  But, most of all, it said, “You can’t kill what is already dead.”

Beau sucked in a tight breath.  This was the thing they had to save.  For Molly.

And then a roar, a wail, a banshee’s war cry, exploded out of the crowd and shattered their plan like a pane of glass.

For a moment, just a moment, Beau felt time stand still.  Yasha was breaking through the crowd, her body surging forward, a black cloak flowing behind her, her greatsword held at the ready, her massive muscled arms pumping as she ran.  Her mouth was twisted into a snarl and her eyes were blue and purple beads focused only on Nonagon.  The sound, the look, punched Beau in the gut and knocked the breath out of her lungs.  Yasha was here.  Beau’s lips pulled into a smirk even as her stomach twisted into knots.

Things were about to go wrong, so Beau pulled back her hood and shouted.  “Mighty Nien, fuck things up!”

The guards had started turning at the roar and as Beau shouted, they started pulling their swords.  Beau heard shouts go up from around the square—Fjord, Jester, Nott (she suspected Caleb couldn’t quite bring himself to that level of exuberance)—and the guards jerked at every cry.  But it was too late.  Yasha was already upon them.  Her sword flashed and one guard went down.  Another flash and another hit the ground.  The Crown’s Guard at the stairs rushed Yasha, while a few raised their crossbows and took aim.

A crossbow bolt and then another shot into one guard and they went down.  Beau rushed in, thanking the gods for Nott’s miraculous drunken aim, and slammed into another one, sending the bolt haphazardly into the sky.  She pulled back her arm to plunge the knife into the guard’s side, but he reacted too quickly, bringing the butt of the crossbow down.  She deflected it and it slammed into her shoulder, a flat whack deep in her bones.  Beau went down, the Crown’s Guard looming over her, lowering his crossbow towards her head.

Just as quickly, he jerked the point of the crossbow up, his eyes wide with panic, but before he could get a shot off, a greatsword cut across his throat.  He dropped his weapon and collapsed to the ground, clutching at the spurt of blood spraying into the air.  Beau felt the warm splatter across her skin.  Looking up, she saw Yasha, extending a hand downward, her sword resting on her shoulder.  Beau reach up and clasped that hand tightly and  Yasha pulled her to standing with an easy, effortless motion.  Beau almost felt weightless for a moment, floating up to Yasha.

Solid again on her own two feet, Beau cast her eyes around the square.  The guards at the scaffold were dead, struck down by Yasha and Nott.  The crowd was not a screaming a churning mass, fighting to get away.  Beau could make out the fading blast of a fireball and the ghostly glow of a barbed flail whipping downward into a group of guards.  Past the crowds, there was movement on the parapets of the Panopticon.  A great clanging echoed through the town.  A full alert was sounding.

Beau heaved in a breath and picked up her knife, preparing for the next wave.  She looked up at Yasha, who was looking down at her, the barest hint of a smile on her face.

“You look, uh, soft,” said Yasha.

A dopey laugh fell out of Beau’s mouth.  “Yeah, wish you could show me how soft.”

Even in the flush of battle, Beau thought she could detect a hint of pink in Yasha’s cheeks.

“Endearing, I’m sure.”  The voice came from their side, Molly’s but dripping with venom.

Beau and Yasha turned to Nonagon, his wrists and ankles still bound in heavy chains.  He stood by the steps of the gallows, a bored look on his face, his lips pulled down in a frown.

“I assume you’re here to free me.  I suggest you start by breaking my chains.  And then leaving.  Or have you made a mistake?”

Beau looked to Yasha.  “You’re you?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”  Beau nodded.  “Keep the chains on him, but talk.  You’re—I think you’re the only one that can wake him up.  I’ll do what I can.”  She peered over the crowd.  “I think Fjord and Jester are heading this way.”

Yasha nodded and turned her attention to Nonagon.  Two wide strides took her to his side.  She looked down into his red eyes.  “You are my best friend,” she said, “Do you remember me?”

There was an explosion and a scream in the distance.  Beau looked over across the ever-widening emptiness around them, as the townspeople fled like ants through every opening in the streets.  There was a heavy clank and the gates of the Panopticon began to rise.  Behind the thick iron bars, Beau could make out a mass of guards pressing forward.  Things were about to get a lot messier.

Nonagon tilted his head to the side and smiled his impossibly wide smile.  “Hello, friend.”

Yasha gripped his chains and bent down, bringing their eyes level.  “Molly, if you are in there, we are getting you out.  I won’t abandon you.”

As the gates pulled higher, the Crown’s Guard began ducking under and rushing towards the scaffold.  Half of them were readying crossbows, as the other half ran towards them, swords already drawn.  The hot afternoon sun glinted off their blades.  Beau looked over her shoulder.  Out of the vanishing crowd were running Fjord and Jester.  Out of another mass, came Caleb.  She looked up and could just make out the tiny form of Nott on the roof, her crossbow still trained on the street.  They were all together.  She glanced at the figure of Nonagon, held tight by Yasha.  Almost.

“Yasha,” Beau yelled, “Grab him and run!”

In one smooth motion, Yasha swept Nonagon up in her arms, flung his restrained form over her shoulder, and launched herself in the opposite direction from the prison.  Beau followed her and the others turned on their heels.  Beau heard Caleb say to the air, “Nott, meet us at the hiding spot,” and nod to a silent response.  They were so intent on what they were escaping that they didn’t notice what they were running towards.

On the slight rise above the square, the screaming crowd parted around the carriage Beau had noticed earlier.  A figure, dressed in well-tailored and expensive robes of purple and gold had stepped out of the carriage and stood watching the chaos.  Her hair was a shock of white that leapt out from the dark background of the carriage.  She rested her chin in one gloved hand, as if calculating the exact threat in front of her.  The calculation made, she raised her hands and the sky went black.  Where there had been a clear day, now dark clouds swirled in violent twists that folded in on the sky until, with a crack, the blue sky underneath ripped open into an impossibly red space.  Three massive rocks hurled down towards the square.

Beau felt the heat and shuddering explosion and her vision went white.  She slammed into the rough stone of the square and something went pop in her arm.  That side went numb.  There was a still fire and the hissing of cooling stone and when she tried to push up, she found herself on her back.  As the white cleared from her vision, the world danced and wavered like a mirage in the desert.  Through the haze, she could make out Yasha and Nonagon bloody and sprawled on the ground, Nonangon’s chains shattered, Yasha’s sword flung across the ground.  Caleb was just beyond them.  Beau clawed at the earth with her usable hand and pushed herself to sitting.  Her arm, the one closest to the explosion, was bleeding profusely, and she thought she could see bone through the gash.  She ripped off a piece of cloth and held it to the cut.  She couldn’t feel it at all.  She desperately needed healing.  Her head still swimming in the haze, she tried to find Jester.  She needed Jester.

A few of the Crown’s Guard had been caught in the blast and the rest stood, yards away, their weapons ready, but not quite willing to push forward.  Between them and Beau, Jester was pushing herself to standing, her dress shredded, a nasty gash gushing red down her face.  She looked up at Beau with a smile.  Her eyes were inky black.

Jester moved like a cockroach scuttling from the light.  Before the guards knew what was happening, she was on them, her teeth, her fingers, digging into a throat, screaming, wailing, tearing.  Beau heard Fjord cry out and he was running towards the guards.  On Beau’s other side, lightening flashed from the wizard towards Caleb and Caleb flashed a protective wall in front of Yasha and Nonagon, who were pulling themselves to their feet.  The lightening sparked and screamed around them before dissolving harmlessly into the ground.

Beau took a deep breath and ran, as the wizard raised her hands and began to mumble another spell.  She was lifting into the air, high above the fray, energy crackling around her.

“Stand down in the name of the Empire.”  Her voice thundered down.

As Beau slid next to Yasha, Caleb locked eyes with her.  “Wake Molly up.”

A glittering bubble of pure magic apparated around Yasha, Beau, and Nonagon.   Immediately, the sound of the battle dropped to a dull background hum.  Sword strikes were needle falls.  Explosions were distant taps.  Through the shimmering field, Beau saw Caleb turn back to the wizard, his eyes locked upward, his face a map of every pain caused him by magic.  Fire twisted out of his hands.

Beau clutched at her injured arm and regarded Nonagon.

“My sword is outside the bubble.”  Yasha gave a tight jerk of the head to her left.

Through the veil, Beau could just make out the fuzzy outline of the Magician’s Judge laying out of reach.

Yasha shrugged, “I, uh, don’t need a sword for Molly.”  She looked at Nonagon, her face painted with sadness, and took a step forward.  “Molly?”

Nonagon was running a hand along the iridescent surface of the bubble, broken chains dangling from his wrists.  He looked at Yasha and flashed her a broad smile.  “Yasha, wasn’t it?”  He laughed, quick and sharp, at something that the other two couldn’t see or hear and then stepped to Yasha’s side.   “I so appreciate your help.  I was scared for my life.  For obvious reasons.”  He laughed again.

Outside, something flashed purple and the ground rumbled.  Yasha’s eyes twitched upward as debris rained down on the translucent shell.  Nonagon didn’t even twitch.

“You look like a kind person, but someone who’s known hardship,” said Nonagon, his face creased into deep concern, “Have you known hardship, Yasha?”  His voice was soothing, like a cool compress on the forehead, but he didn’t move to touch her.

“I—“  Yasha stuttered as she stared into the deep pool of Nonagon’s eyes.  “You know.  I—“  Her arms hung loose at her sides.  “You know, Molly.”

Nonagon shook his head sadly, his voicing continuing at a level, calming tone.  “I wish I knew more, Yasha.  Perhaps there will be time when this is over and you can tell me all about it.”

There was a whoosh of wind sweeping across the bubble and someone started screaming outside.

Yasha’s head inclined ever so slightly up and down.  “I’d like that.”

Beau stepped up.  “Yeah, we’ve all had a fucking hard time.  Life is shit.  I think we can move on to more pressing matters.”

Yasha twitched and squeezed her eyes and looked over at Beau wonderingly, like she was just noticing that Beau was there.

Nonagon cocked his head to the side, his smile growing broader.  “Beau, life may be shit, but we can rise above it in so many ways.  Wouldn’t you like to find another way than wading through the shit?”

Beau glanced at Yasha and saw her stumbling to the side, as if trying to pull herself from a trance.  When she looked back to Nonagon, his eyes, vibrant and shining, reached out to her, filling the world.

Beau punched him in the face.

It was supposed to be a nice sharp rap on the nose, maybe breaking it, definitely sending him sprawling in a heap on the floor.  Instead, it was loose and wide, smacking against Nonagon’s cheek bone and glancing towards his ear.  Beau let out a grunt and shook her hand as the pain pulsed through her arm. 

Nonagon reached up and gently massaged his cheek.  “I find what you did quite disturbing.”

His eyes were filling the world again and Beau felt his fingers working at the edge of her mind.

“Ya—yasha,” Beau said, as something flashed by the bubble, “C—cov—ver his ey— ”

Beau didn’t finish, her voice fading away, her mouth hanging open in confusion, but Yasha was already moving, the clouds lifting from her brain.  One heavy meaty hand clamped over Nonagon’s face, obscuring his eyes, and Beau felt something snap back like a rubber band in her head.  She stumbled back against the ever-shifting wall of the bubble, trying to clear her vision.  Nonagon reached up and gripped at Yasha’s arm, digging one set of nails into her wrist, the other set reaching up for her face.  Yasha dragged him backwards, pulling him off his feet.  His one hand swiped air, but the other, around her wrist, dug deep, scarlet pooling up around Nonagon’s nails.  Shaking her head clear, Beau walked over to Nonagon’s wriggling body and kicked him in the groin with every ounce of strength in her body.

His body folded in on itself, his hands instinctively jerking downwards to cover the radiating pain between his legs.  He was cursing in infernal, spitting guttural sounds at Yasha and Beau, damning them to the innermost hells.

Yasha dropped him to the ground and pounded a fist into his gut.  Nonagon moaned and then continued his infernal chanting.

Yasha looked up at Beau.  “We need something that works.”  She was shaking with rage.  “I need Molly ba—“

Yasha’s body collapsed in a spasm of flailing limbs and screaming.  Her back arched.  Her arms straightened and made a sickening cracking noise as the joints pushed back and back again.  Her body twitched across the ground, lifting and falling like a marionette whose strings were being ripped from its limbs.  She wailed, her mind collapsing from the pain that wracked every inch of her body.

Beau could feel the deep timbre of Yasha’s cries vibrating in her chest and she moved instinctually, rushing to Yasha’s fallen, convulsing body.

Nonagon stood up, holding out his blooded nails.  As Beau hovered around the violence of Yasha’s body, he said, “Just a little blood goes a long way.”  His eyes smiled now, but his lips didn’t.  “You are going to free me or your friend will die like this.”

Beau’s breath shuddered as she stared at Yasha.  Nonagon was doing this to Yasha, to Molly’s best friend, and Nonagon was still here.  If Yasha couldn’t cut through Nonagon to Molly, then what would?

Outside the bubble, there was a dull thud as something slammed against the wall.  She could just make out a high-pitched screaming and she realized it was Nott.  Beau felt wetness on her cheeks and wiped at her face.  She stared at her fingers disbelieving the dampness.  Tears ran down her face.  She shuddered again, turning towards Nonagon.  “You can make me do whatever the fuck you want.  You don’t need to do this to her.”

“No.”  Nonagon gave a quick shake of his head.  “With your friend like this, I can’t focus enough to control you.  If I let her go, you have no reason to listen.”  He looked up as something shadowy and rough flew overhead.  “All your friends are going to die.  Very shortly.  When this—“ He pointed at the bubble.  “—falls. Your wizard will be dead.  Then, we will run.”  He reached over and scratched a nail down Beau’s cheek.  She felt the warm flush of blood follow.  “Both of us.  My followers are all dead.  My trusted disciples buried in unmarked graves.  I will need help.  You are just weak enough to succumb, but powerful enough to be useful.”

As Nonagon talked, Beau’s eyes searched the ground for anything to use as a weapon, but all she could see was Yasha’s body folding back on itself, arching upward.  Her screams echoed in the bubble, drowning out the sounds of battle.

Nonagon was right.  Everyone was about to die.

“Wake the fuck up, Mollymauk!”  She screamed it as her fingers began worked slowly towards her pocket.  With her left arm dead at her side, she had to stretch across, her hand struggling to reach in and grab the folded tarot card.  “I know you’re in there.”  Her fingers clipped the edges of the card.  “You have to be horrified at this.”  Her eyes flickered to Yasha as the card slipped away again.

Nonagon watched her with an amused look on his face.  He flicked one finger down and Yasha slammed into the ground, still.  “Now there’s only a slight burning in her blood.”  Yasha a moaned mournfully and curled into a ball.  Nonagon placed his hand on the small of Beau’s back and pushed her forward towards the side of the bubble.  “Do you hear the sound?  It’s dying away.  I think we’re very close now.”

As he pushed her forward, until the tip of her nose touched the arcane energy, Beau strained her arm further into her pocket.  Two of her fingers latched onto the card.  Slowly, she started working it out, hoping it wouldn’t slip.

“Little girl,” Nonagon hissed, his breath on her ear, “What do you want?  This doesn’t have to be just torture.”

The card slipped out of her pocket and she unfolded it with one hand.   Beau glanced down.  The card had been folded cleanly in half and there was a deep crease splitting the image.  At the top was a broad-winged angel playing a gleaming golden horn.  On the bottom was an image of naked beings—adults and children—climbing out of their graves and rejoicing at the music.

“I had a friend who told me that, like, you should always leave a place better than you left it.”  She raised the card until it hovered in what she thought was Nonagon’s eye line.  “But I think the best way to leave this place is for you to get the fuck out of Molly’s body, you douchebag.”

Beau heard Nonagon laughing.  The bubble shimmered and wavered for a moment as something blue flashed outside.  She saw a blur that looked like Fjord running past and then something electric slammed into his body and he flew backwards.  He lay still on the ground.  A moment later, Beau saw a form that could only be Jester kneel over him, as something large and dark screamed towards them.  Beau swallowed.

“No, seriously.  This card is great, right?  Really interesting.  Like, clearly the angel’s Yasha and she already told you to wake up.  All you have to do is crawl the fuck out of the grave again.”

Nonagon continued to laugh, building and building, until he sighed and patted Beau on the shoulder.

“Thanks, I needed that—”

—There was a single moment where everything seemed timeless.  Beau was bathed in light, every way she turned was light.  But in the light she could make out the shadows of her friends.  Caleb, an outline, hunched over a book.  Nott, knife out, threatening the air.  Fjord, falchion locked in combat against invisible assailants.  They were mere forms in the blinding light.  But, Jester, she hovered over the prone body of Molly and there was a shining star where her emblem of the Traveler dangled from her neck.  And Yasha?  Her body stood in sharp contrast to the light, an emptiness where it couldn’t touch and her sword flashed brilliantly, a beacon calling out to Beau.  All of them hung suspended in the eternal light that enveloped and trapped and then—

A blunt thud smashed through the cavern, a deep rush of bass through Beau’s chest.  She slammed into the ground.

She groaned and quickly scrambled to her feet.  In front of her, Yasha stood firm in the middle of the cavern, her sword smoking.  Trent’s soldiers, the elemental, Fjord, Jester, Molly, Caleb, Nott, they were all scattered in a perfect circle around her, as if an explosion had burst forth from Yasha.

Above, Beau could see Trent leaning against the back wall, trying to regain his breath, his hands clutching his head.

In turn, she met the gaze of each member of the Mighty Nein.  Molly, just coming up from unconsciousness, gave Beau a nod.  Jester, leaning over Molly, looked up from her hands in disgust.  Caleb, the components of a ritual laid out around him, shook and then steeled up his nerves.  Nott just shook her head and gave Beau a thumbs up.  Fjord didn’t meet Beau’s gaze.  He was too busy staring across the room at Jester.

Beau rushed up to Yasha, who was still staring up at Trent, her sword at the ready.  Beau rested her hand on Yasha’s shoulder as, around them, Trent’s soldiers pulled themselves back to standing.

Beau smiled, thin and tight.  “Hey,” she said, “Let’s finish this.”

Yasha lowered the sword for a moment, as the rest of the Mighty Nein drew themselves up and turned towards Trent.  “Yeah,” said Yasha, “Let’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by bboiseux ([@bboiseux](http://bboiseux.tumblr.com)).

**Author's Note:**

> What a journey! This is the longest, most plot heavy fic I have ever written. Thanks so much for reading along. A big thanks to my co-authors ginnyvos, fiach_dubh, and TheLastNoel for their contributions and the way they fundamentally changed the story!
> 
> [Tumblr post for sharing here!](https://bboiseux.tumblr.com/post/177568439020/we-are-the-shadows-in-the-mirror-critical-role)
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> I am also [bboiseux on tumblr](https://bboiseux.tumblr.com/).
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